The Covenant and the Oath
by Pompey
Summary: A collab w/KCS, based on a bunny by bcbdrums. AU sequel to "On Afghanistan's Plains" -- as if "Young British Soldier" never happened. An elderly doctor from Watson's past asks Holmes to investigate the disturbing harassment of former army doctors. Complet
1. Signs and Symptoms

Holmes was acting oddly that spring of 1896. It took me a reprehensibly long time to recognize his behavior was out of the norm, for which I offer no excuse other than what for other men might be odd is normal for Sherlock Holmes. By then I knew and tolerated a great many of Holmes's eccentricities: his mercurial moods; his irregularities with eating and sleeping; the incessant smoking of shag tobacco, noxious chemical experiments and weird violin solos that could so easily becoming grating; his abilities to be brusque and arrogant one moment and then gentle and tactful the next; and his inherent aversion to confide in others, myself included.

It was this last characteristic of Holmes that I blame for the slowness of my observations, and my even slower questioning of his behavior. Holmes has commented previously on my "grand gift of silence" when he is engaged in heavy mental exertions. I had learned, through a series of trial and errors, when it was safe to put questions to him and when to let him be.

That spring, Holmes was in and out of Baker Street at all hours, in all manner of disguises. Telegraphs arrived constantly, until I came to know a few delivery boys by name. Sections of the newspapers vanished into his possession before I had a chance to read them. Clearly he was deep in an investigation and yet he spoke not one word to me about it. I have long ceased to take offense at Holmes's secretive nature and instead focused my energy on trying to deduce what had arrested his attention.

I had not observed any client come to call, nor yet any official from the Yard. Therefore, the case was one Holmes had stumbled upon himself. Clearly it had "points of interest" or else Holmes would never have undertaken it. Finally, I suspected there was a healthy amount of danger involved. Lately Holmes had taken to cleaning and reloading his pistol every couple of days.

He feared there might be some danger, by association, for me as well. By the middle of May I had caught sight of an Irregular or two tailing me. I had not asked them to stop, for the boys made honest livings in Holmes's service. But there had been that one occasion when I could not resist…

"'Ere now! Leggo o' me!" the lad had squawked, ramming a bony elbow into my side as I caught his arm in the dimly lit street.

"Alfie, what on earth!"

"Oi, 's yew, Doctor! Whatcha wanna frighten a bloke loike tha' for?"

Two indignant green eyes glared at mine before the boy hopped backward as if afraid of me. I sighed – this was the third time this week I had caught one of them at this.

"Alfie, you –"

"Please, Doctor, 'tweren't my idea ta follow yew!" he pleaded, his gaze reminiscent of a puppy begging for a treat.

No, I was sure it was not his idea. Why in the world was Holmes behaving in such a manner? I shook my head, looking back at the Irregular, who was scuffing the toe of a ragged shoe on the pavement, no doubt thinking he had failed in his tailing job and would have to report so to Holmes. I sighed once more.

"Alfie, when you report to Mr. Holmes tonight, will you do something for me?"

" 'Course, Doctor."

"Tell Mr. Holmes that I am aware of you and the other boys' presence and I am curious to know why he is having me shadowed everywhere I go, eh?"

Alfie gulped, and I raised my eyebrows meaningfully.

"Yes, sir," he said in a subdued voice.

"Very good."

I turned and began walking again, glancing back a moment later to see that the lad had once again taken up his post and was doggedly following me wherever I should go. If Alfie did relay my message to Holmes, I was unaware of it. Certainly I saw no signs of it from Holmes himself.

That Holmes had put his Irregulars to the task of following me was unusual in and of itself. More unusual yet was his behavior regarding me by the end of May. He began accompanying me on the simplest of outings and errands, often asking me to take along my revolver. On those occasions where we parted company, he would scrutinize my appearance from head to toe when I arrived back. More telling, he offered none of his usual (correct) deductions on where I had been or what I had done. Only a brief smile and a curt nod of his head indicated he had observed anything at all.

In hindsight, I was inexcusably dull-witted. At the time, however, I found his behavior reminiscent of the time when Moriarty and his gang were hot on Holmes's heels. The caution leaving Baker Street, the lack of time for everyday deductions, his unspoken need to keep me near – I believed they spoke of great personal danger to Holmes. Still he said nothing and I worried in silence, prepared to, at the moment he spoke, spring into action. It had been only two years since the Adair murder and Holmes's resurrection; I could not bear to lose him again so soon.

My patience was growing thin with anxiety by early June. Over the breakfast table, as we perused the morning edition of the _Times,_ I was on the verge of asking him about his case. My queries were stopped before they started when Holmes gave a sudden cry of horror.

"What is it?" I demanded, able to take no more of this.

It was as if my words had caused an iron mask to drop over his features. The brief glimpse of roiling emotion on his face disappeared instantly. "A murder has been done. A man is dead," Holmes said flatly. He crumpled up that section of newspaper and took it with him as he left the table.

"Was he your client?" I enquired, though I strongly suspected the answer would be to the negative.

Holmes hesitated a moment before flinging himself into his chair and casting the newspaper page into the fire. It had been chilly the previous night and it was still cool this morning, despite the time of year. "Yes, you might call him that."

"Then he did engage you on this case?" Perhaps I had been mistaken in my belief that no client had come to Baker Street, or perhaps the case had come by mail.

"His involvement is no longer in question!" Holmes snapped. "He is dead. I failed to prevent his murder."

I understood, or thought I did. Failure had never sat well with Holmes; the death of a client cut him deeper than any other, though such occurrences were thankfully few and far between. His anger was not directed at me but at his own inability to protect the man who had sought Holmes out for help.

"Can you not avenge his death and bring his killer to justice?" I asked, trying to bring his attention to more proactive measures than moping in his chair.

Holmes glared at me with rather unwarranted annoyance. "Yes, Watson, that is my immediate goal. Heaven knows I did nothing to prevent this tragedy; why should I not tidy up after my own mess?" he snarled and sprang up towards his pipe on the mantle, his back to me. His movements were jerky with anger as he filled his pipe and lit it. He inhaled once upon it, exhaled slowly, and turned back to me.

"Watson," said he, his voice surprisingly gentle, "I must apologize. You have shown a patience with me lately that surpasses your usual. For that, I am grateful. But I must ask you to continue to not put questions to me. My own questions about this matter are trying enough to answer."

"You know I am happy to be of service to you in any way I can."

"Yes, I know. I know that very well, dear fellow, believe me. But in this matter you would be of the most use if you stayed out of it altogether."

"Is it the danger, then?" The idea that Holmes would exclude me from a case based on that was preposterous but then, he had been so erratic over the past few weeks I no longer knew what to think.

"There is danger enough," he admitted, resuming his pipe, "but it is not that. I need a man I can trust to keep guard at Baker Street, and I trust you as I trust no other man."

I found myself utterly taken aback by his words and the warmth in which they were uttered. Holmes is one of the least demonstrative men in the whole of England and any show of sentiment from him is rarer than malachite.

"Of course, Holmes," said I, once I was sure of my voice. "If I can be of help by staying at Baker Street then I will do so. But do you expect danger to arrive on our doorstep?"

"I expect nothing," he replied, "but to plan for the worst ensures preparedness for any outcome. Hullo! You see, Watson, how quickly plans can change. We have a new client come to call."

Holmes had turned his attention to the window and when I peered through it, I caught the glimpse of a white-haired gentleman disappearing through our front door. "Do you think it wise to take on a new case if your current one is of such magnitude?"

My friend merely shrugged his shoulders. "His case may be an entertaining diversion. Then again, I am under no obligation to accept it should it prove commonplace."

Mrs. Hudson entered, bearing the gentleman's card. "Dr. Ernest Ives," she announced.

"Ives!" I exclaimed in shock. A thousand memories came back to me with hurricane force.

"You know this name?" Holmes asked me, with surprise of his own. Before I could answer, however, the man himself entered the room.


	2. Treated As Such

CHAPTER TWO

All crime is a disease and should be treated as such. – Mahatma Gandhi

Dr. Ives had aged noticeably in the sixteen years since last I saw him – and he had been close to sixty then -- but he still retained his ramrod-straight carriage, bristling caterpillars of eyebrows, and gaze that shows slight contempt at the world in general. His hair was all iron-grey and white but his eyes were still that fierce blue I remembered from my time in Peshawar. He had lost the deep tan bestowed by the Indian sun and his face was innumerably lined and creased from decades of working in tropical army field hospitals. Though Ives was not a tall man – barely four inches over five feet – his presence was that of a man far larger. All in all, I was left with the impression that the man had changed little physically. And I had no doubt time had not softened his brusque and imperial nature either.

When he opened his mouth my suspicions were confirmed. "I trust I am not interrupting anything of great importance, Mr. Holmes?" asked Ives although the tone of his voice indicated he did not much care if he were.

"Certainly not, Doctor. In point of fact, I had only just commented that your mystery might be an interesting diversion from what has been a rather tedious and overdrawn problem. Pray take a seat" – Holmes waved a hand towards the couch – "and give me the full account, omitting no details, however inconsequential they may seem."

Until this point Ives had not so much as glanced my way. As he sat, however, his gaze raked over me from head to toe in a most unsettling appraisal.

Holmes watched out interplay with interest. "Dr. Ives, my friend and colleague –"

"Dr. John Watson," Ives broke in. He smile a trifle tightly. "I thought it was you when I read those stories in the _Strand_. You're looking far better than last I saw you. Kindly refrain from offering me the same sentiment lest I lose respect for your diagnostic abilities."

I felt myself smile in return even as I began to chafe already under the roughness of Ives's speech. "Given those circumstances, I could not have been much worse off the last time you saw me so nearly anything would be an improvement. As for yourself . . . well, sixteen years can do much to a man. At any rate, you have not yet 'paid your debt to nature.'"

"No, but it is the interest on that debt that will wreck a man," returned Ives. "Which reminds me: was I right, about that 'barometer'?"

It took me a moment to understand what he was asking. "We both were," I conceded.

Ives barked a short laugh more a cough than mirth and turned his attention back to my friend. "Well, Mr. Holmes, I confess I am slightly disappointed. You have not yet offered to dazzle me with deductions about where I have come from and what my business is. Have you had adequate time to observe me or would you care for a few minutes more?"

I could have laughed aloud as Holmes stared at him a moment in silence. We had seen our share of imposing clients but usually theirs was a position of desperateness. Ives appeared to have none such urgency behind his visit that might temper or make bearable his curt mannerisms.

Recovering his presence of mind quickly, Holmes leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "Since you expressed such interest, I can tell you that you have spent the majority of your life in the service of the British Army, much of it spent as head surgeon of various field hospitals. You were stationed in Peshawar in 1880 and discharged from the army around 1891. Since returning to England you have neither retired nor bought a practice but instead have been working at a clinic specializing in treating members of the lower classes. You live alone save for a housekeeper of inconsistent habits, shun all but the strongest tobaccos, rarely touch spirits, and have come to ask me to investigate the murder of one Dr. Douglas Chamberlain."

I observed Ives closely during this delivery. I have heard Holmes's deductions met with abject astonishment and also dismissed as mere "parlour tricks." Ives responded by raising one of his grizzled eyebrows in mild appreciation.

"Spot on, Mr. Holmes. However, I would be far more impressed if you can tell me that which I do not already know."

Holmes flashed him a brief smile. "Certainly, Doctor. What precisely is it you wish to know?"

"You are aware that poor Chamberlain was murdered last night," Ives replied. "Perhaps you are of the events leading up to it?"

To my surprise, Holmes looked somewhat discomforted by the question. His eyes flicked to me so quickly I could barely credit it. Then he nodded abruptly. "I am."

"I wish to know who is behind this, and why, and how to prevent the next murder."

"The _next_ murder?" I asked, unable to help myself.

I found myself on the receiving end of a gaze I remembered all too well. "Of course there will be another murder!" Ives exclaimed. "Haven't you read of how the harassment has escalated? And now that the blackguard has sunk to murder, surely he will continue down this depraved path. Does this not seem logical, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes looked more discomforted than before but there was a more pressing point of interest for me that I did not hesitate to voice. "What harassment? Of Chamberlain? If the man is already dead who could possibly be his murderer's next victim?"

Ives gaped at me in what must have been one of the few moments in his life where he was struck dumb. Before he could respond, however, Holmes demanded, "Tell me, Dr. Ives, how you became aware of the pattern."

Ives glanced from Holmes to me and a strange sort of light grew in his eyes. He sat back and sighed with the air of man who sees the way of things and spoke. "Unlike some, I have kept in touch with my colleagues in the army after my discharge. Of course, it is easier when one's colleagues were not massacred almost to a man at Maiwand" – here Ives gave me a sympathetic nod – "but that is neither here nor there. There may have been instances of harassment prior to the visit paid to Dr. Thomas Knopp, but that was the first one I was aware of."

"Early March," Holmes murmured.

"Quite. Knopp is an acquaintance of mine so the article in the _Times_ caught my attention. I contacted him out of curiosity and he told me that this was not an isolated incident. In fact, it was his third. At the time we both considered it odd but attached no significance to it. It was only when I happened to mention it in passing to General Malkin that he told me he had undergone a similar experience nearly three weeks before."

At that Holmes gave a start. "I was unaware of that. He fits the profile?"

"He does indeed. He too thought nothing of it, didn't even bother to report it to the authorities. However, my suspicions had been raised. I sent out word to those I kept in touch with, asking them if they had had similar experiences. A few had." Here Ives paused and gave Holmes a knowing look. "Not all of them reported the harassment to the authorities."

Holmes acknowledged this with a wave of his hand. "The reports were not printed with regularity until early April."

"Yes, part of that is my doing. Once I saw what was happening I sent out word to my acquaintances to be on their guards, and asked them to spread the word as well. Eventually more doctors came forward with their stories and as the violence escalated, I knew it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened. Now that it has, I wish to prevent another murder. I am surprised, Dr. Watson, that you were unaware of this."

"I have read no account of doctors being harassed," I admitted flatly. A terrible idea was only just blossoming in my mind, one so repugnant I could barely admit it into my consciousness.

"Not doctors!" Ives snapped. "Men who once served as doctors in the British Army who now live in London. There are not that many of us who fit this criteria. How is it you missed those _Times _articles?"

I had no excuse to offer. How _had_ I missed those articles? Surely I was not as dense as all that. My gaze fell upon Holmes and I felt suddenly sickened. My friend's odd behavior had begun around early April; about that time he had taken to disappearing into his room with newspapers. While both he and the papers had eventually resurfaced, was I willing to swear that the papers had returned to the sitting room wholly intact? I found I was not.

Ives proved just as adept at reading my expression as Holmes was. "Ah. Your friend Holmes has gone out of his way to keep you in the dark." He looked back to Holmes, as did I.

My stomach dropped further when I saw that Holmes had gone quite still and white. "I wanted to be sure of the danger before I burdened Watson with undue concern," he said to Ives. He did not meet my eyes, nor did I wish him to.

"I think the danger has been confirmed," replied the old surgeon, with his most imperial tone. "And now that it has, what is our course of action?"

Holmes sprang from his chair and turned his back to us while he sloughed off his mouse coloured dressing gown. "We shall venture to the morgue and see what can be discovered from examining the body of Dr. Douglas Chamberlain. If you will excuse me, I will hail us a cab."

"Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Holmes," said Ives, also rising. "I shall see to that." He gave me a look that can only be described as sympathetic and left us alone in the sitting room.

Holmes and I stared at each other in silence. Holmes was deathly white and looked more ill at ease than I have ever seen him, save during our mad flight through Europe that ended at Reichenbach. This association only increased my turmoil. Again I was a victim of Holmes's deception.

"So you 'trust me as you trust no other man'?" I asked bitterly.

"Watson . . ."

"Ives is waiting," I interrupted and turned from him.


	3. He Who Would Be a Surgeon

CHAPTER THREE

_He who would be a surgeon should join the army and follow it. - Hippocrates_

For a good five minutes as the cab clopped through the streets a deathly, almost tangible silence reigned among the three of us. Holmes was seated across from Ives and me, shooting the former wary glares and refusing to meet my gaze at all. Ives was complacently glancing out at the scenery with the contented air of a man who knows there is a strain and that he had no part or blame in it.

Finally I broke the very uncomfortable silence, shifting in my seat and not speaking to one of them more than the other.

"Would one of you be good enough to enlighten me as to the nature of these doctors' harassments?" I asked, almost surprising myself at the frigid tone of my voice.

"It is –"

"You see –"

Both Ives and my friend spoke at the same moment, stopping to fix each other with challenging glares that would have made me laugh aloud had the circumstances of their meeting not caused the unveiling of a deception upon me.

Ives raised his bushy eyebrows at my friend, who was still studiously avoiding looking at me, and Holmes finally broke the gaze, turning back to the window wordlessly. Ives turned to me.

"It began inoffensively enough, juvenile insults and mild threats tucked into doorways and mail slots. Knopp received two such messages, though I learned this only after speaking with him. The _Times_ made no mention of those, though they certainly spared no ink when it came to the lurid details of the third incident. But perhaps that is an unfair judgement," Ives conceded, in a rare show of tolerance. "Even Knopp himself failed to take them seriously at first."

"He destroyed the notes, of course," Holmes interjected without looking away from the passing scenery.

Ives sent him a pointed glare. "I should hope you have a better opinion of the nerve of army men, having lived with one for over a decade, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes stiffened but said nothing to the barb, and Ives went on, turning back to me.

"Of course he destroyed them. Why should he not, if they were empty threats? But the third occurrence, the one that made the _Times_, was slightly more arresting than the first two."

"Which was?" I asked, eyeing Holmes's rigid posture with growing unease.

"Knopp was in his study, just before twilight, when a large rock came crashing through his bay window, barely missing the man as he walked past the pane. He rushed to the opening in time to see a man disappear through the hedge. And he was unable to give any more detail than that it was indeed a man. No traces were found of the culprit.

"That was the first show of real violence. General Malkin received only the notes, as have many of the others, but a few . . . well, Preston, whom you served under, received a well-throttled and bloodied pigeon on his doorstep last week. You see the reason for concern, Doctor. The violence is escalating as 

this blackguard gains nerve. And now a man has been killed. Douglas Chamberlain was not a particularly a good man, had plenty of enemies, but his death now is more than a trifle suspicious in light of the pattern," Ives finished. "Anything to add, Mr. Holmes?"

"Nothing," my companion replied curtly, "you seem to need no help from me in explaining your . . . _investigation_, Dr. Ives."

There was a very thinly veiled sarcasm evident in Holmes's manner that I bristled defensively at; the old army doctor, however, never twitched, ignoring my friend completely. It did more to irritate Holmes than a rebuttal or verbal sparring match would have.

"_How_ was Chamberlain killed?" I asked, my curiosity overcoming my annoyance.

Holmes and Ives exchanged wary stares before Ives gave a rather gracious inclination of his head and folded his arms with a smirk.

"Chamberlain was killed at ten last night. There was a strange pounding on his front door and when he answered it he was shot," Holmes summarized less graciously, still not quite meeting my eye. "Servants were all abed at this time at the back of the house and heard muffled noises, nothing more, and no one on the street appears to have seen or heard anything that would aid us in our inquiry."

"According to the article in the _Times_ this morning, anyway," added Ives softly.

"I wouldn't know," I managed tightly. "Holmes burned the article about Chamberlain shortly before you arrived. Before I had a chance to read it."

Again Ives cocked a bushy eyebrow at Holmes in disbelief, which Holmes pointed ignored. It was around that time that I decided to ignore Holmes to the best of my abilities and Ives, true to form, seemed silently amused by the melodrama playing out before him.

The air in the cab was charged with an electric edge of tension by the time we reached Scotland Yard, and it was with an immense feeling of relief that I disembarked from the carriage and followed Holmes and Dr. Ives inside the stately building.

After a bit of arguing with the man on duty, the combination of both of those formidable personalities directed in unison upon the cringing sergeant got us into the police morgue with a thoroughly cowed guide, who promptly left us after a terrified backward glance at my two companions.

Dr. Douglas Chamberlain was somewhere between my age and that of Ives, closer to the latter – very late fifties or early sixties I should judge. More than that I had not time yet to see, for Holmes had at once thrown himself into a close and minute scrutiny of the body, completely either forgetting or ignoring our presences.

Ives stepped a bit closer to me and leaned over.

"He probably would have made a passable surgeon," he observed, seeing Holmes's methodical inspection.

I nodded briefly without speaking, for I was still rather piqued at being kept in the dark yet again by the man, good reason or no.

Ives asked a few questions about Holmes's background and other matters which I answered, but at the end I glanced up to see Holmes glaring at both of us, the merest hint of what in any other man should have been described as jealousy written across his face. But Holmes, jealous? No, surely not.

"If you've both finished discussing my life's history?"

Ives's eyebrows went towards his hairline and I glared at Holmes. Honestly, the man could be a perfect child when the fit so struck him. I stepped over to the body, ignoring his black looks with the ease that comes only of long practice.

"Shot through the heart – or rather, that was the intent. I can't say that I've ever seen a wound quite like that before. It looks terribly mutilated; death must have been instantaneous," my friend said, gesturing to the corpse.

I bent over to inspect the wound and suddenly straightened up in shock, my eyes darting to my fellow practitioner.

"Dr. Ives," I gestured toward the body, stepping back out of the light.

"What is it?" Holmes asked, his curiosity overcoming his pride and breaking our strained edge of converse.

Ives studied the wound with a practiced eye. "You're quite right. That was no ordinary bullet," he said, glancing at me.

I nodded, indicating my bad shoulder. "It's a Jezail bullet, no question about it."

"The same kind –"

"The same kind that still resides in fragments in your biographer's left shoulder," Ives said impatiently, probing the area. "The only predictable thing about jezails is their unpredictability. They are often comprised of scrap metals, making them mushroom out as soft-nosed bullets or shatter and splinter inside the body. That is why they cause incredible damage, as you can clearly see here."

I felt a subconscious twinge in my own arm to echo the older man's words, and instinctively stiffened my shoulder. Holmes looked at the horrible mutilation of the wound and then glanced back at me, all animosity gone from his face and replaced by a sickly pallour as he realised exactly what had nearly cost me my life in the Afghan War.

"That is – dreadful," he said, looking rather ill.

"_That_ is a colossal understatement, Mr. Holmes," Ives replied dryly, pulling the sheet back over the body and looking at the two of us. "But that is the way of war."

Holmes's face was unnaturally pale as we made our way to the door, and I saw him shudder once as he glanced back at the body and then to me; it took no great powers of perception to see the drift of his thoughts. But I suddenly remembered something.

"That Jezail bullet means an _Afghanistan_ connection, not just a British Army or medical connection," I said suddenly. "Were the other doctors who were harassed serving in the country as we were, Ives?"

"Knopp was, certainly. Holmes?"

"I am afraid I did not research that far into their histories," my friend said in a subdued voice.

"We should rectify that at once, then. Come along."

I repressed a laugh at Ives's so very peremptorily taking over the investigation and Holmes bristled, his emotional reaction to finding out what kind of wound I had suffered in the war disappearing in the face of this extreme annoyance.

If looks could kill, Ernest Ives would have been dead long before he reached the doors of army records repository from the glares Holmes was shooting at his rapidly-moving back. I remained silent; although a bit of my anger had dissipated at Holmes's reaction to the wound, I still was more than a little irked with his subterfuge in the case.

We stopped at the desk and allowed Ives to take command – as a Surgeon-Colonel, he had the rank necessary to access private records without the bother civilians and lower ranking soldiers ran into. Holmes acknowledged the wisdom of allowing Ives to lead us at the front desk, though his ire was still apparent.

Hours later, we were safely back in the cab, heading to the home of the late Dr. Chamberlain. Our work was not as fruitful as we had hoped. Of the doctors who had been targeted, not all had served in Afghanistan. Several had, but some had served in only India. Holmes detailed what he had scribbled from the reports into his notebook, occasionally shooting a nervous glance at Ives's sharp scrutiny – the detective was not used to being the one under the microscope and the sensation could not be very pleasant.

I was more preoccupied with the image of the body we had examined. I shuddered – the man we were after was either deranged or the most cold-blooded fiend I had encountered; shooting a man whose profession was one of mercy, and in his own home, was simply unnatural.

Holmes shot a glance to me, then back to Ives. "How far of a range does a Jezail gun – a rifle, I believe? – have?"

"Maximum of 500 yards," I answered before Ives could, and the elder doctor corroborated my statement with a nod.

Holmes's eyebrows raised in surprise. "That far? Then the man could have been anywhere – it is no wonder we have no description of him here in this report. At that distance, the household would indeed not have heard a loud report."

"But the jezail rifle itself is an unreliable weapon, its deadliness dependent on the quantity of shots rather than quality," Ives replied. "It takes a steady hand and steadier eye for any degree of accuracy. Shooting a man through the heart with a jezail rifle means he was a great deal closer than 500 yards or that he had the very luck of the devil. We will, of course, need to visit the house," he added, banging on the cab roof and shouting an order to the driver, "to see the location and calculate angles. The position of the murderer should be fairly easy to calculate once we see the scene."

This time I grinned outright at Holmes's black scowl as the cab obediently turned in the direction Ives had named. My friend sat back in the cab and folded his arms, glaring moodily out at the passing scenery, and his brows furrowed and his eyes darkened as Ives started up a conversation with me about one of our mutual acquaintances of years gone by.

This investigation could prove to be most interesting, in more ways than just the case with which we were engaged.


	4. Beginning of Practice

CHAPTER FOUR

_Diagnosis is not the end, but the beginning of practice. Martin H. Fischer_

There was a single constable standing guard over the crime scene. His presence was all but superfluous. Holmes had long deplored the methods of the police, which too often included running slipshod over critical clues. After more than twelve hours, the evidence would be scanty at best.

Nevertheless, Holmes gave it his best effort. The constable was suitably awed at Holmes's presence and was accordingly accommodating, though he looked at Ives and me with some askance. Ives cowed the poor youngster with a glare while I occupied myself by observing Holmes.

He began with the door and its frame, where the splashes of blood had not yet been cleaned away. I saw Holmes position himself carefully, recreating Chamberlain's movements from the previous night. "Doctor?" he called.

"Yes?" Ives and I answered as one. We exchanged wry glances.

I found I was unable to interpret Holmes's expression, other than to note it did not contain amusement. Nor did he clarify which one of us he meant to address originally. "Would I be correct in saying the injuries sustained by the deceased were not from a shot fired at close range?"

I thought back to the mangled flesh and bone we had examined. "You would, yes, despite the amount of damage. Why?"

"Then we must reconcile what we know of the gunshot with the report that it was 'strange knocking' that brought Chamberlain to the door. Surely if our shooter had pounded upon the door he would not have had the time necessary to retreat to a further distance."

"Perhaps he had an accomplice," Ives suggested.

I repressed a shiver at the thought of two men, or more, bent on harassing and tormenting, and now killing, veteran physicians. Bad enough there was one such man running about loose in London. Worse yet, two or more men implied some sort of conspiracy. But for what purpose?

"Perhaps," Holmes murmured and ran his finger along the center of the door, below the brass knocker. He suddenly flung himself at the curb in front of the house, peering about him intently. I saw him turn over a few loose cobblestones before he sprang upright again. His head turned sharply, as intent as a scent hound upon a trail, glancing up and down the street. I could see nothing out of the ordinary, only two- and three-story dwellings much like Chamberlain's. Then Holmes gave a soft cry of satisfaction and tore across the street, narrowly avoiding being run down by a hansom cab. Ives gave a warning shout that Holmes appeared not to hear, or perhaps ignored.

"Come on," I said and followed Holmes to the other side of the street. I, however, was mindful of the traffic. Ives rejoined me a moment later. The constable we left behind us, gaping at our sudden flight.

"I have read your accounts of Mr. Holmes's eccentricities but I had no idea they were to this extent," he growled, slightly breathless from his dash. "Is he usually this bad?"

"I fear so."

"I don't recall him engaging in that particular form of exercise from your stories. Therefore I will presume his impression of a chimpanzee is not a usual feature in his investigations."

I turned to see what Ives was referring to. To my surprise, Holmes was scaling the wall of the building directly opposite from Chamberlain's house. He had little difficulty in doing so as an old dog shed and a new trellis thick with morning glories lay in convenient juxtaposition. "You'll note, gentlemen," Holmes called down to us as he climbed, "that the vines of the trellis and roof of the dog shed show evidence of having been used thusly before."

Indeed, with my attention drawn to them now, I was able to distinguish fresh scrape marks on the dog shed's roof, even the remnants of a boot print, and signs of distress among the flowering vines. "But what does it mean?"

"Observe." Holmes had reached the roof of the building and appeared to be cradling some object in his hand. Now he pointed at the blood-stained door across the street and drew back his arm in a pitcher's stance. The throw was one a cricket-player would be proud of. Something small and dark flew through the air and lacked with a crack against the door frame. The young constable started violently and jumped away as the object bounced towards him.

"My aim is off," said Holmes, brushing off his hands, "and yet I trust I have demonstrated the source of the 'strange pounding' reported by the servants?"

"Chamberlain's killer was positioned on the roof!" exclaimed Ives. "He threw stones –"

"Cobblestones, to be exact. There is maintenance work on the road around the corner."

"Cobblestones, then, against the door until the man himself answered."

"Quite so. I observed the multiple chips and dents in the door near the knocker, far too fresh for any past vandalism. Then I found the loose cobblestones littering the curb and spotted this building, within eighty yards of Chamberlain's home, with its ideal circumstances for ascension."

Holmes lowered himself to the ground with slightly more care than he had shown crossing the street. "However, I confess I am lacking in knowledge about the jezail rifle itself. How is it fired, and how quickly is it reloaded?"

"Jezails are notoriously hard to reload; often the _ghazis_ would carry two rifles for that very reason," I answered, fighting back memories that were unpleasant at best. "The rifle butt itself is curved and held between the arm and the side, unlike our rifles that brace the butt against the shoulder. As such, it is easy to fire a jezail from a kneeling or standing position, although it would be difficult to fire while prone."

"In this case, the circumstances demanded it," replied Holmes. "Had he stood, he would have been clearly outlined in the lamplight and in the line of Chamberlain's vision."

"But why didn't the people in this house hear the shots?" Ives asked.

"For the simple reason, Doctor, that they weren't home to hear them." My friend seemed much more willing to interact with the old doctor when he was the one answering the questions instead of asking them. "The occupants have been on holiday for a week, I should say. I do not know if our man chose this house knowingly or if the convenient placement of dog shed and trellis caught his eye. In any event, it is a bad break for us. Had someone been home we might have had an eye-witness description of the murderer."

"But we are not completely in the dark about him," protested Ives. "We know he proficiently wields at least one jezail rifle, and that he has excellent aim, even in the dark. We also know he is able to pick out vantage points and utilize resources at his disposal, so he is a clever devil. And a cool one too, to be able to plan out a murder so ruthlessly and efficiently."

"Indeed." Once again, a cool mask slid over Holmes's demeanor. "I might go so far as to say he is highly confident in his abilities to aim accurately and shoot. The time he had between flinging cobblestones and taking up his rifle could not have been more than a matter of seconds. We also know that, despite our work with the military records, there is at least one or two thread connecting the culprit to Afghanistan."

My brain ran over these developments which were becoming increasingly and eerily familiar. "A sniper," I murmured and was only aware that I spoken when my companions turned to look at me.

"Yes," Ives agreed slowly. "A sniper would certainly have those characteristics."

"Did the Afghanis have many snipers?" demanded Holmes. I could not tell if the brusqueness of his question was due to annoyance that he had not thought of it first or if it was born of concern he was not used to expressing.

"During the retreat from Maiwand to Kandahar even the village children were snipers," I replied. I was glad to have finished speaking before my throat tightened with tumultuous emotion. An odd look swept over Holmes's face. It was very much like the one he had worn in the morgue, when he made the connection between the damage jezail bullets can cause and the wound I had sustained. I had never consciously though of how little Holmes knew of my experience with war. Nor, apparently, had he.

Ives clapped me softly on the right shoulder and turned to my friend. "What is the next step in the investigation?"

"Tedious legwork," Holmes answered, slightly self-deprecatingly. " I should like to question the servants myself, and then examine the house and the late doctor's records. It is a long shot but worth looking into."

Ives was unsatisfied. "But how will that prevent a second murder?"

"For that, I shall count on you, Doctor, and your network that has already been established. Send out the word to be on guard at all times, especially when 'juvenile threats' are concerned. By the by, how was your chain of communication made?"

"The same way any chain of communication is made," said the old surgeon with asperity. "The friends and acquaintances of my friends and acquaintances."

"No clubs or groups? No connections through work or business or finances?"

"Certainly there would be some overlapping. I, for one, limited my contacts to those doctors with whom I had shared military experiences." Ives sent me yet another sharp look which I answered with perplexity, not understanding his meaning. The older man came perilously close to rolling his eyes before addressing my friend.

"If it is all the same to you, Mr. Holmes, I should like to borrow your biographer for the afternoon. I am no longer young and I fear sending so many messages will be tiring."

I no more believed Ives would be exhausted by sending telegrams than I believed he could sprout wings and fly. Surely Holmes was not taken in either, though he replied with a shrug, "Watson is his own man and may do as he pleases without asking my permission."

"Why, thank you, Holmes," I said dryly. It is an odd feeling to have two men speak about you as though you were not in their presence. It is an even odder feeling when you suspect they are surreptitiously vying for your attention. I had no wish to add fuel to their petty quarrel with each other yet I was still irked with Holmes for his unwarranted deception. I also felt strongly that Ives wished to tell me something he could not say in front of the detective. "I shall see you at Baker Street this evening then."

Holmes's face betrayed no hint of emotion, save perhaps indifference. "I may be back much later tonight; you need not wait up for me."

"As you wish."


	5. Not Only the Healer

CHAPTER FIVE

_The physician must not only be the healer, but often the consoler - Harriet K. Hunt_

I sat, somewhat uncomfortably, across from Ives at the table, idly fidgeting with my ornate silver napkin ring. We had made our way to a hotel restaurant, stopping at the desk in the lobby to ask for a pad of telegraph forms; the young clerk had been thoroughly taken aback when my companion unceremoniously took the entire stack with him as we went into the dining area.

Now, as I absently sipped my tea and watched Ives's wiry form bent over the table, scribbling furiously, my mind wandered briefly to what Holmes was doing now – tedious legwork, he had called it, and I knew how much the basic routines of investigation bored him to the extreme sometimes. He would most likely be in rather a bad temper upon his return to Baker Street tonight – best after all that I should not wait up for him, I judged.

I frowned, the details of his deception running again through my mind, but my thoughts were interrupted when Ives suddenly laid down his pencil and stacked the forms into a neat pile, glancing up at me.

"That should put the rest on their guards, if they either did not receive my first message about the threats or else were foolish enough to ignore it," he said, fixing that piercing gaze on me.

I nodded a little distractedly, but then something sprang into the back of my mind, remembering his words of a little while ago, coupled with what he had just said.

No, surely not.

"You said you did already warn your contacts?" I asked hesitantly.

"Yes," he replied, looking at me sharply, "I sent a message to every medical man I had shared experiences with."

"I received no such message from you," I said slowly.

"Nevertheless, I sent it."

I stared at the doctor, feeling the black cloud of deception that had been hovering at bay start to creep up upon me once again.

"When the affair began to escalate, you were one of the first dozen or so I contacted," Ives said calmly, watching my expression.

"It – must have got lost in the post somewhere," I said, not convinced myself and certainly not fooling Ives.

"Possibly."

"But not probably."

"No, not probably."

"How dare he!" I exclaimed with a sudden vehemence, causing several scandalised onlookers to send us warning glares over their port glasses.

Ives's brows knitted. "Be careful, Watson – you have no idea if what you're thinking is the truth or not."

But I knew as well as he did what had most likely happened.

"What kind of a man reads another fellow's post?" I demanded angrily.

The knitted brows went ceiling-ward, and I flushed uncomfortably as I realised what I had just said.

"That was different."

"How so?"

"I was dying – you had to."

"Nothing of the sort."

I blinked. Ives fixed me with one of those looks that would have made me squirm as a subordinate.

"I was under no more obligation to open your mail at Peshawar than your friend was in your flat. I had no more right than he, and yet you've never held bitterness toward me for doing so."

That was true, to some extent I supposed. "But –"

"Tell me, Watson. What was the reason going through my mind as I opened messages meant for you those sixteen years ago?"

"To discover my next of kin," I replied immediately.

"And why was it so urgent that I do so?"

"You needed to know who to contact, in the event of . . . my death," I found myself stumbling over that particular idea. "Even news such as that is easier to bear than the uncertainty of never knowing what has happened to a loved one."

"Exactly. In the long run, it was to prevent someone from worrying," he replied pointedly.

And I suddenly realised what I had said – indeed, though Holmes's actions were not excusable, they were at least understandable. He never had been able to get it through that stubborn heart and brain of his that I would ten times over rather him inform me of danger rather than trying to protect me from said danger through my own ignorance of it.

Ives was still looking at me with a half-smile as this all filtered through my senses, and finally I felt my brow clear a bit from the anger that I had been subject to a few minutes before.

"Very well, the matter is in the past and therefore irrelevant at this stage of the investigation," he went on at last, seeing me sit back with a resigned sigh.

"What _is_ relevant, then?"

Ives sat back as well, steepling his fingers in a manner so similar to Holmes that it made me smile, and thought for a long moment.

"As your friend said, there is the Afghanistan connection. We may not know until Holmes talks with the staff and so on what a possible motive could be for Chamberlain being the first to actually be more than harassed – why he in particular as the first victim?"

"I am more concerned about who is to be the second," I said uncomfortably.

"Indeed. Which brings us to the interesting point that you have not yet been threatened."

I started, staring at Ives, who blinked calmly back at me. "I? Why should I be targeted above someone else?"

"Well just for the simple reason that you've made it quite clear in several rather popular periodicals that you were in the Afghan War _and_ as a medical man – just the publicity factor would make you a rather easy target for a man trying to trace veterans; the evidence of your existence, even your very address being within the public eye. You're actually one of the most easily located targets, when you come down to brass tacks."

"I had not thought of that," I said, feeling a chill run down my spine at the idea.

"But obviously your friend Sherlock Holmes has," Ives returned soberly.

I dropped my gaze from that intense one, realising he was right.

"He's been having me shadowed everywhere I went," I said quietly, "making sure I was never alone."

"And opening any correspondence you've received from a name he did not recognise."

"Of course, that's it."

I rubbed my head wearily, the sharp irritation I had felt toward my friend slowly fading into a dull annoyance.

"It must be his odd idea that ignorance is protection," Ives said dryly, "from what I've read of you two, that seems to be a regular occurrence in your relationship?"

"Unfortunately, yes," I growled, finishing off my now tepid tea.

"I have to say I'm rather amused that you finally found someone who could match you in your infernal stubbornness, Watson," said he with a smirk, calling for the cheque.

I was still fetching round for a semi-intelligent reply to that insult when he rose unceremoniously, sweeping the telegrams off the table and setting off for the desk, leaving me to follow in his wake, still thinking of his rather chilling words about my being a rather easy target.

The weather was actually pleasant for the time of year, and we decided to walk the distance back to Baker Street, catching up a bit on old times. But the conversation reverted before very long back to the case at hand, hanging over our heads as it was.

"I have been wondering, why haven't you been targeted yet?" I put forth thoughtfully, "there has to be some pattern somewhere – and as you said, I have not been harassed yet either. Can you think of any connection among your acquaintances who have been?"

We walked along in silence for a while, Ives in deep thought and consulting a notebook in which he had a list of the men he was in communications with.

"Not a visible connection, no."

"About those of us who have escaped the treatment, then?"

Ives's bushy brows furrowed in contemplation.

"There is one thing, but a rather vague connection. Neither you nor I are getting pensioned currently, and I know neither Chamberlain nor Knopp were when the attacks came," he said slowly, "but they had ceased only to draw only recently. I would have to check on some of these others – they are far younger than I and could still be drawing."

"Not much of a connection, though."

"No, it isn't. But I fail to see any other relevant factor among us – besides the obvious Afghan thread there is nothing else to bind this together."

"If there is no method, we could be dealing with a madman," I said in a low tone, glancing about from force of habit when discussing danger.

"Even if there _is_ method, we still could be," Ives retorted, "you know as well as I do that some maniacs make perfect sense in a twistedly logical way – and we know from Chamberlain's murder that this sniper, for lack of a better word, is resourceful and quick-witted."

"Not to mention a deadly aim," I muttered, seeing again in my mind the mutilation on the dead veteran's body and wincing as I remembered all too well the pain associated with such a wound.

Silence settled over us as we walked, and I noticed Ives glancing about us as much as I was – even if we had not yet been harassed, it still would be imprudent to let our guards down in any fashion until the business had been dealt with. I hoped Holmes was having more luck in tracking down a lead or pattern in the twisted drama.

We reached Baker Street near dinner-time, and I convinced Ives (to my great surprise) to stay for supper and catch up on our lives for the last sixteen years. I was actually thrilled to see the man again, and though I knew he would cut off his arm before showing it I believe he enjoyed seeing the product of his painstaking care in Afghanistan alive and well and leading at least a somewhat rewarding life.

He left around nine-thirty, taking a cab at my insistence, and I stood by the window until he had departed, watching the street uneasily. I almost – not quite, but almost – was glad that I had not found out about the drama six weeks ago when it had started, for I could not imagine being this tense for that long without snapping.

Try as I might, I could not shake off the image of that body in the morgue – and with it came other images, far more gory and far more painful to my memory than Chamberlain's demise. The brain can be a terrible weapon against one's self, and mine was no exception as thoughts and feelings I had believed long dead came back from their burials and began to cloud my mind.

Giving myself a firm shake, I poured myself a stiff brandy to calm my nerves and settled down in front of the fire with a novel, endeavouring to escape my thoughts for a little while at least before attempting sleep for the night.


	6. Not an Adventure

CHAPTER SIX

War is not an adventure. It is a disease. It is like typhus. – Antoine de Saint-Exupery

_We were marching to our new encampment, one which we suspected was closer to future battle sites. The road was hard and dusty, the June sun beating down on us already burdened by our equipment and sweltering in our woolen uniforms. Tempers were high, morale was low, and to add to it all, our nerves were stretched thin with fear. The further we traveled from British lines, the greater the chance we stood of sniper attack. The natives knew the terrain far better than we; they knew every rocky outcropping in the area ideal for snipers' vantage points. Once or twice I even saw half-grown children wielding the guns. The continuous state of apprehension was just as tortuous as the leather straps of my pack chafing my shoulders._

_It was almost a relief when the worst finally happened. Shots rang out, echoing in the still air. We dropped what gear we could and fumbled for our weapons. I got my rifle in hand and was lining up a shot when I felt a sudden spray of warm wetness across my face and hand, and the soldier next to me gave a gurgling cry. Glancing round, I saw the soldier at my right elbow had been shot at the base of the throat. He fell to the ground as I watched. Dropping my rifle, I knelt beside the fallen man. It might be possible to save him if I could treat him in time. I pressed my hand directly on the wound to stem the immediate flow of blood and reached for my medical kit. _

_When I turned back, I started in fear and surprise. A figure stood in front of me, not five feet away. He was dressed in the flowing robes of a native but the robes were an atypical jet black color. His face was hidden by his jezail rifle trained at my head but one dark, malevolent eye glinted at me. All in all, he was eerily reminiscent of the Grim Reaper. I stared up helplessly, one hand still on the soldier's wound, the other hand raised with an open palm to show I was unarmed. Then the figure's eye narrowed and his finger tightened on the trigger. The explosion was the last thing I heard._

I awoke with a muted cry. My heart was pounding in my throat and even though I was looking at the sitting room in Baker Street, every time I blinked I saw flashes of the dream. It took me a minute to realize Holmes was standing in the doorway of his bedroom in his shirtsleeves and dressing gown, watching me with concern. It took me another minute to realize there was a thin blanket covering me. I must have fallen asleep while reading and missed Holmes's return. Faintly, I heard the clock chiming the hour; it was one in the morning.

"Was it a nightmare?" Holmes asked. He spoke with a particular blend of concern and nonchalance that indicated to me he was uncertain of what reception I might give him. There was no point in dissembling.

"Yes."

Slowly he crossed passed my chair, as if he were headed to the mantle, but paused by my side and laid a hand on my shoulder. "You're shaking."

I hadn't realized I was, although I certainly felt shaky. "I suppose I am." I had no more response to make so I merely looked back at him. My silence seemed to unnerve him. Holmes turned from me and retrieved his pipe and shag from the mantle.

"It was brought on by this wretched case."

He spoke flatly, and dull confidence. It was not a question yet I answered anyway, to the affirmative.

"And the subject was the war, your experience with a sniper attack."

"It was based on some of my experiences, yes."

Holmes struck a match and lit his pipe, eyes cast downward. "Do you wish to talk of it?" he asked at last.

"Most definitely not," I said immediately. It was bad enough to have lived through it and then to dream of it. I was not about to speak of it, especially now with my emotions so close to the surface, and certainly not to a man who valued objectivity and reason above all. I trusted Holmes with my life but nothing could be gained by burdening him with demons from my past.

Holmes sighed faintly. "I am so sorry, Watson. I should have recalled the old adage that to be forewarned is to be forearmed."

"Yes, you should have," I replied seriously. At his second startled look I added, "However, that is neither here nor there at this juncture in the case. What have you learned so far?"

Holmes retired to his chair, and drew again on his pipe. "Apart from the fact that it is most uncomfortable being on the receiving end of your ire and that your patience with me really does seem limitless, I have found several threads but no way of connecting them all as of yet."

"What are these threads?"

"Item the first, only Dr. Chamberlain's maid heard what went on because she was suffering a bout of insomnia that night. She heard the 'strange knocking,' the creaks of the doctor rising and answering the door, and the subsequent shooting. The cook and butler were roused by the maid's cries.

"Item the second, the doctor's passing has not left his servants as bereaved as they might be. Gregson is working the case, incidentally, although he shows every sign of passing it off to Lestrade at his earliest opportunity, and he did not fail to note their reactions. I believe he had it in his head to arrest the lot of them until I managed to dissuade him with a few choice facts. Namely, Chamberlain made enemies far more easily than he made friends. From all accounts, he was a hard man with strong opinions and no hesitancy about vocalizing them. I cannot think such qualities makes for an appealing bedside manner although his practice was not unprofitable.

"Item the third, our man has had devilishly good luck or he is simply that cunning. I suspect the latter. Not only was the house which he perched upon empty of occupants, last night's chill ensured windows were firmly shut against the elements and against the sound of gunshots. None of the neighbors recall hearing anything out of the ordinary. Moreover, he has an uncanny instinct about his quarry that speaks volumes about his resources."

"How do you mean?"

"This city is teeming with doctors and with army veterans but where those two demographs converge is a small sliver of the populace indeed. Narrow the field further to former army doctors who served only in India or Afghanistan and the number of potential targets grows positively miniscule. And yet, the culprit has managed to pick out only men who match that particular set of criteria. Curious, is it not?"

"That is one way of describing it," I replied somewhat sarcastically. It was no comfort to me to know the murderer had yet to target a veteran of the Zulu War over one of the Second Afghan War.

" 'Concerning,' then," Holmes amended, acknowledging my unease. "There are other facts about this man that are both curious and concerning by turn. The notes and threats sent to the other doctors, for example. They –" Here he broke off and looked at me with strange expression. "I suppose I have left you in the dark long enough, Watson," he said at last and rose to retrieve from his desk a small stack of papers.

"These I have reproduced from the originals I was able to see during the weeks prior to Ives's consultation. I must warn you, Watson, they are virulent and vicious little missives. By the time I began my investigation our man had progressed past 'juvenile insults and mild threats.' If nothing else, they will serve to give you a better grasp of what we are dealing with."

Rarely have I seen Holmes look so pale and grave. For a fraction of a second I wavered; perhaps ignorance was the easier path. Then I gave myself a firm shake and accepted the papers. Deciphering Holmes's handwriting was a welcomed distraction from the actual content of the messages.

My friend had begun in early April and worked backwards into February, then backtracked to early April and continued chronologically. Ives's friend General Malkin was the first documented instance in February. Holmes had recorded the content of the message -- "regulation swine-herder" – as well as the manner in which it was written, in block printed letters on "cheap, ordinary paper." I inferred this was the general's description as I could not see Holmes satisfying himself with such undescriptive adjectives.

From there began the descent. I flipped through the pages more rapidly as the messages grew more ferocious and explicit, the murderer's writing slipping from carefully printed block letters to heavy scrawls. Holmes's notes about the type and quality of the paper and ink grew more extensive even as the violence progressed, finally ending with the murder of Dr. Douglas Chamberlain.

I drew a slow breath to steady myself. When I looked up I saw Holmes watching me intently. "Virulent and vicious indeed," I offered weakly.

He nodded seriously. "The villain has gone from taunts and insults to murder in just over four months. He is highly volatile in that respect and yet every action of his has been carefully planned out. That makes him doubly dangerous. Can you understand, Watson, why I wished to keep this from you until absolutely necessary?"

There was an underlying desperateness to his query. Our silent fight had taken more of toll on him than I suspected. "Of course, Holmes," I replied.

Holmes looked so wildly surprised (and relieved) at my ready answer that I elaborated. "I don't necessarily agree with it but I understand why you did it. And I do appreciate the sentiment behind it. Even so, kindly do not do it again."

"No," he agreed. "I have imposed on your good nature enough as it is. And speaking of which, Watson, it is only fair to warn you I intend to spend the better part of night smoking what you deem 'noxious' tobacco. If you are a sensible man you will take yourself upstairs to bed."

"Are you sure I cannot be of any help?"

"Quite sure," he replied although the small smile he offered removed any sting of dismissal. "All I require now is a long stretch of solitude in which to ponder this problem. Anyway, you deserve some unbroken rest."

Weariness was beginning to overcome me so I determined to follow Holmes's advice. As I folded the blanket he had placed over me, I recalled something that might be useful in my friend's ponderings.

"Holmes?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't know if this will be of any use to you, but earlier today Ives mentioned the only link he could see separating the army doctors who have been threatened from those who have not is the active receiving of pensions."

Holmes raised a dark eyebrow. "Indeed? Well, perhaps it is worth considering, if _Ives_ says so."

In his tone there was a faint coloring of an emotion I could not place. I knew the detective and the older doctor had not taken to each other and yet I sensed there was more to it than a mere grating of personalities. Even so, now was not the time to puzzle it out. I shrugged in response. "Good night, Holmes."


	7. Only One Rule

Chapter Seven

_"Only one rule in medical ethics need concern you - that action on your part which best conserves the interests of your patient." Martin H. Fischer_

_**Holmes**_

I barely registered the door closing and Watson's heavy, slow footsteps ascending to his bedroom, so disturbed was my mind already in the middle of this truly appalling business. For six weeks I had all but ignored most else but the affair, my alarm steadily growing until this morning (or rather yesterday morning, as it was now well after one) when I had read of Chamberlain's death in the papers.

I was rather relieved that my friend had glossed over the matter of my deception as he had just now. I did regret deceiving him, but given the same circumstances over again I probably should not act any differently. He had memories enough of his own to fight, judging from the intensity of the dream I had seen the ending of, and it was sheer bad luck that Ives had arrived to break the news of my withholding information instead of my doing so at a time I thought best.

Ives. I frowned, not understanding why I was so unable to feel amiability toward the man – I really should, seeing that he was the main physician to attend Watson in Peshawar – but somehow I could not, the man simply grated against me like nails on a blackboard.

But my personal feelings were of no importance, considering the far greater problem at hand, and I firmly pushed away everything but the concrete evidence I had shown Watson a while ago, riffling through the stack of papers once more.

My brow wrinkled in disgust as I leafed through the papers again, seeing the vile insults and threats upon the documents. The man, whoever he might be, was obviously well-read and had a large vocabulary, both of the English language in general and also of army slang. I noted only two misspellings in the entire stack, which bore out my deduction that he was highly educated.

Not that that helped us much. I turned my attention from the contents to the writing itself. Besides the obvious facts that they had been written by a right-handed man who preferred common steel pens with blunt or rounded nibs who was between the ages of thirty and forty, there was not much else I could read that we did not already know.

The paper was a moderately cheap bond paper, common enough with clerks and office-workers, and the ink was the typical blue-black logwood variety that usually accompanied the average paper in the average London office. The only interesting factor here was that evidently our sniper on several occasions had forgotten to add soda to the ink, for the words upon several of the threats had already begun to fade.

No, there was not enough data in them for a further analysis of the man's character. And judging from the ferocious nature we had learnt of him this far, I was not at all eager to learn more about him, necessary though I knew it was.

I got up to refill my pipe, leaning against the mantel for a moment in remembrance, my mind going back to the morgue and the unfortunate Dr. Chamberlain's fatal wound. The mere thought of something like that happening to Watson was simply unthinkable – but it already had, those years ago, and if this man continued to rampage through London heaven only knew who his next target would be.

It was sheer luck that evidently he had not yet read any of Watson's stories, for I could hardly seeing a man of his intelligence passing up so obviously open a target if he had. I dearly hoped he did not take it into his head to pick up a copy of _A Study in Scarlet_ before I could catch up with him.

And why now – why start his vengeance or whatever he was trying to do now, after sixteen years? He had to be newly arrived in London, else why wait that long to begin his vendetta? The fact that he had not yet read any of Watson's stories (for though I would die rather than admit it, they _were_ rather popular) seemed to bear out that theory. Unless…unless he were mentally unstable, and something recently set him off…but what then?

I threw myself back down into my chair, drawing my knees up and pushing aside all personal considerations in the interests of discovering more about this man. A sniper, Watson and Ives had both agreed, and I concurred – very few men could so accurately and so quickly aim such a rifle, and in the dark to boot.

Not just well-educated but also highly intelligent, as well as being efficient and resourceful.

And completely ruthless. Chamberlain may not have been well-loved, but he was still a doctor, and to shoot a man of that trade in his own home was nothing short of cold-blooded. Though to a hardened veteran perhaps it inspired less horror than it did to me.

I failed to see a possible connection between the man and some of these others, however – Chamberlain had been a caustic, aloof man, but some of the others who had been threatened were perfectly upright and amiable personalities. Some had served in only Afghanistan, some only in India, some in both. There was no other connection that I could trace, save Ives's comment about the pensions.

But that could not be checked until tomorrow. Today, rather.

Watson's pacing upstairs had finally stopped, and I hoped he had at last dropped off to sleep, more restfully than he had been when I had returned from Chamberlain's house.

Why in the world would this sniper be targeting British army doctors? And only ones stationed in India or Afghanistan? Why such a vendetta against a very miniscule portion of the population?

But…because he would so accurately pinpoint these few men, he had to have some kind of method of getting hold of that information…somehow he could get hold of army doctors' information and yet only target certain ones for whatever his reason might be.

But how? Who would have access to that so precise information?

After another several hours' worth of pondering, I had accomplished little save to empty my Persian slipper twice of tobacco, forcing me to root around my bedroom for more around seven that morning. There had been no further noise from above, for which I was grateful, but I was growing increasingly frustrated with my inability to cogitate a solution from my armchair as I was fond of doing.

In consequence, I was in rather much of a temper by the time Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs bearing a pot of coffee and the announcement that Dr. Ernest Ives was calling. At this infernal hour. Had the man no tact whatsoever, or was early rising a regular occurrence in his household?

I felt the need, ridiculously enough, to hasten through an abbreviated toilette, finding myself oddly apprehensive of how I should appear to the man, and waited with just a shade of nervousness for him to appear in the doorway.

Which he did, a moment later. One sweeping glance passed over me to the window, which I had opened to let out the haze, then round the room, perceiving both my slightly unkempt presence and Watson's absence.

"Good morning."

"Doctor. Pray take a seat. Coffee?" I could at the least be civil, as etiquette was an automatic action, not requiring any deep thought.

"No, thank you."

I poured myself a third cup, knowing I would be badly needing it very shortly. For several moments Ives glanced about the room in a silent fashion that annoyingly reminded me of myself when on a case, before turning that keen glance back to me. How I wished I did not feel that niggling threat of intimidation, but it was there just the same.

"Watson is not up yet, then." As the answer was obvious and the man anything but stupid, it was a conversation starter, not a legitimate question.

"No," I replied stiffly, of course not about to tell him how horribly the first part of that night had been spent by my friend.

"You've not gone to bed yourself, I perceive."

I frowned, but realised belatedly that I should have at least changed my cravat and collar, for the man was highly observant, confound him. When I made no move to instigate more strained converse, the old doctor sighed elaborately, looking me square in the face.

"Would it be too much to ask if you would give me the results of your night's contemplation? Judging from the amount of ash on the floor, you were indeed contemplating, correct? I believe the Doctor's literary term is a 'three-pipe problem', though this looks to be more like a dozen and three."

"Truly a _Strand_ devotee, Dr. Ives," I replied dryly. The man gave an infuriating smirk but said nothing, waiting for me to continue; which I tried to do gracefully, detailing as civilly as I could manage the gist of my rather inadequate conclusions.

"We can check the pension angle today, of course."

"Of course," I said in annoyance – if that fellow took over the investigation today as well, I should surely…

Ives interrupted a rather appealing scenario in my mind involving conveniently leaving him for the duration in the darkest alley in the East End with a question that took me completely off-guard with its appalling directness.

"Tell me, why did you intercept my message to your friend, Mr. Holmes?"

I blinked despite my desire to show nothing on my features. I had not counted on anyone finding that out – when I had taken the missive I merely did so because I did not recognise the name; if it were a threat I did not want Watson to know of it. And when I found otherwise, I retained it so that he would continue to live in ignorance of the business. It was pure bad luck that Ives had sent it and then come himself. He must have told Watson I had intercepted it.

But there was none of the indignation I would have expected out of such a man in his eyes or manner, only curiosity. Which I found rather odd, and not a little disconcerting.

"I wished him to know nothing of the business," I replied simply, "at the time I thought that to be the best course of action."

"Ignorance of a danger being safer than knowledge of it?"

"It was not a personal danger to him at that point; he had not received any threats himself," I defended myself, "had he, then that would have been an entirely different matter."

Ives raised a bushy eyebrow at me, causing me to unaccountably want to squirm, an urge which I firmly quashed.

"At the time I was simply opening anything addressed to him from a name I did not recognise," I went on a bit uncertainly, "if it were a threat I wanted to see it first."

The man's silence was very unnerving.

"And besides, I –"

"Mr. Holmes," Ives interjected with an exasperated tone, "I was not asking you to justify your actions to me; I was just interested in your reason for them."

That took me by surprise. The old army doctor grinned at my discomfiture, moving to sit across from me at the table and leaning forward with the stealthy air of a man who knows a secret.

"You know, if you would drop this antagonism, Mr. Holmes, you might find that we have more in common than you would at first believe."

I resisted the urge to both scoff and laugh in the man's face. But my amusement left me when he continued.

"You are not the only one who has at some point opened correspondence addressed to Dr. John Watson," he informed me calmly, finally pouring himself a cup of coffee and sipping slowly.

"I beg your pardon." I blinked.

Ives finished the cup with an infuriating slowness before replying, leaning back in his chair and fastening that gaze upon me once more. I almost unconsciously sat up straighter in my chair as he began his story.

"It was, and is, standard procedure to have the names and addresses of next of kin at hand when a patient is close to death. It is usually not very difficult to obtain these as men often have letters from home secreted among their possessions, or tell stories of home so we know who to contact. Watson was most uncooperative in that respect." His eyebrows lowered, as though still taking offense at Watson's lack of correspondence with family.

"Both his parents were dead by then and he had had a falling out with his brother," I interrupted. I was not at all pleased by the knowledge I was attempting to prove I knew Watson better than this man and yet I couldn't seem to help myself.

"Yes, so we discovered later," came Ives's frosty reply. "At the time, however, I had only one name to go on, the name of man that even in delirium Watson worried over: Murray."

"Murray!" Surely that was not the same Murray who had been Watson's orderly and had saved his life, quite literally, after the Battle of Maiwand? Yet I knew it would be very much in character for my friend to be concerned for his orderly, though why Watson should take Murray's fate _so_ much to heart I could not fathom.

The old doctor shrugged. "Today you and I know the identity of this man. Back in September of 1880, I could only hope there was a blood tie between them. Both their surnames are Scottish, after all. I knew this Murray fellow had been in Kandahar and would mostly likely still be. It had only been two or three weeks since the siege had lifted." I felt my brow furrow in confusion – I did not remember hearing about any siege on Kandahar – but when Ives paused I gestured for him to continue. The history lesson I could learn on my own.

"I was bound and determined not to do it until circumstances forced my choice." Ives sighed in a most weary manner. "Mr. Holmes, what do you know of enteric fever? That is, typhoid?"

I shrugged as casually as I could, though all my instincts were unpleasantly tingling. "A long, painful bout of illness followed by an equally long and slow convalescence. Cramping, high fever, and exhaustion are the chief symptoms, I believe."

Ives snorted. "An accurate enough description, if unevocative. After two or three weeks of fighting dehydration and high fever, the body weakens terribly. Your friend was strong enough to keep the disease from progressing as it should have for almost a full week extra but not strong enough to throw it off entirely. That extra strain nearly killed him." Ives leaned forward, his eyes fixed intently on mine. "High fever. Delirium. Labored breathing. Slow pulse. Atrophy of the muscles. Finally the patient reaches a state where external stimuli fail to produce a response. Do you understand what I am telling you, Mr. Holmes?"

I did, if the icy chill that had settled around my heart was any indication. My accursed imagination was all too eager to provide visual accompaniment to the doctor's words. "How long would it have been before –" I couldn't finish the question.

"Not long. Maybe three days. Maybe less."

I swallowed hard. My poor Watson. "And that was why you opened his undelivered correspondence."

"No."

"What?"

"No." Ives smiled at my astonishment. "No, it was not because of that, although it certainly hastened my decision. If I had opened and read his telegrams with the sole aim of discovering a next of kin to alert in the event of his death, that would have been one thing. But my aim was to extend a courtesy to a man I knew nothing about on behalf of a man I respected, whether or not this stranger was blood kin or not. Watson obviously cared for this Murray and so I did Murray the kindness of letting him know Watson's fate. It is the unknown, as I'm sure you already know, that brings about the torture of our emotions. That is why I threw over regulations to read Watson's telegrams. That is why I also answered them . . . in his name."

"You _what_?" Although I had a better grasp of Ives's reasoning, even I found this to be beyond the pale.

"I exaggerate slightly. Only once did I use his name. The first two I sent to Murray were under mine and very proper and regulation they were too," he amended with some asperity. "When it came to the third, I knew Murray was going to be reassigned and shipped out to some no-man's-land part of India. By then Watson was recovering but not nearly lucid or strong enough to send word himself that he would be all right. So I did it for him, as I knew he would have done had he been able to."

When he had finished I found myself openly staring at this extraordinary man. And for the first time I realised something.

Despite the icy wall between us at the moment, there was a common denominator that we shared…a common figure that we both cared about, which in turn gave rise to a common fear that obviously had fueled us both to jump-start this investigation before another victim was claimed by this madman.

Perhaps I would be better served to indeed try to drop the animosity I was still feeling toward the man – he was far more valuable, and would give added safety to Watson, as a close ally than as a mere annoying factor in the business. Perhaps.

But my thought was sharply interrupted by a rather angry voice from the doorway.

"So opening another man's mail – and responding to it, Ives? – is yet another characteristic the two of you have in common, is it?"


	8. Inhospitable a Host

CHAPTER EIGHT

_Serious illness doesn't bother me for long because I am too inhospitable a host. – Albert Schweitzer_

_**Watson**_

No doubt it was in poor taste to have eavesdropped on the conversation between two men I considered friends. It would have been far more civilized to have retreated back up the stairs to my room when I recognized that I was the topic at hand. Indeed, I had been on the verge of doing so when I was frozen in place by Ives's admission that he had actually answered my correspondence, not merely read it.

I understood why he had done it. In a way, I was grateful that he had contacted Murray when I hadn't been able to. But it was this news coming so soon after evidence of Holmes's similar deception that grated on my sensibilities. That I had spent the night alternating between insomnia and yet more nightmares did not improve my mood one whit.

"So opening another man's mail – and responding to it, Ives? – is yet another characteristic the two of you have in common, is it?"

Their faces became twin masks of guilt in a most satisfactory manner for a second. Then Ives assumed an expression common to fathers addressing children in temper tantrums while Holmes looked at me the way a man might look at a snarling dog restrained by the flimsiest of chains. Had I not been so annoyed, I would have laughed.

Despite my annoyance, I immediately regretted having announced my presence and displeasure so abruptly. Nevertheless, rather than back down I folded my arms and waited for their responses. Besides, I had yet to receive a real apology from either of them, though I supposed Holmes had already come as close to apologizing as he was going to get.

Ives was first to answer, with only the faintest trace of his usual imperialism. "I hope the other similarities you see are somewhat more complimentary?"

"Less criminal, perhaps."

"You've taken long enough to decide to be angry with me," he replied calmly. "I told you years ago you would have been within your rights to have me court-martialed."

"I didn't realize then how true your statement was, since you only told me half of your transgressions."

"Would it do any good to remind you of what we discussed yesterday at the hotel?"

"You mean, of what you said about the lack of rights and obligations?" I tried to sound far more put out than I actually was, though what degree of success I achieved I don't know.

Ives laughed rather than take offense. "Well, you have me there. My congratulations. It seems, Mr. Holmes, I can no longer best him in arguments so we shall have to appeal to the doctor's better nature."

"In that case the situation is hopeless; I fear it's been rather tried of late," Holmes finally spoke up, the twisted half-smile he sent me his recognition of my right to angered by their respective behaviors.

"Thank you for that acknowledgement, Holmes," I said dryly. As I suspected, there were no overt apologies though I hadn't truly expected any anyway. I knew their natures all too well and now the choice was mine. I could continue to bear a grudge against each of them or I could set aside my grievances – temporarily, anyway – in favor of more productive actions. The conclusion of this case was a far better time to lecture each of them on the slight matters of personal privacy, private correspondence, and taking liberties in general. Sighing, I bowed to logic. Though there was one issue I had to clear up first.

"Are there any other such instances I should be made aware of? I should much prefer to hear it all now and be done with it than come by it piece-meal."

Holmes shook his head. "You will be relieved to know I have nothing more to disclose. We have reached the end of my deceptions and I don't plan on adding any new ones." He turned his gaze to Ives, as did I.

There was a brief pause. "I fear I read your medical records in Peshawar as well," he confessed as gravely as a priest though the angle of his eyebrows let me know he was being facetious; after all, what attending physician would _not_ read the medical records of a patient?

"Well, perhaps one day I shall be able to forgive you for that," I replied seriously, equally facetious. We smirked at each other for another moment before Holmes quietly cleared his throat. He looked mildly annoyed, probably at being left out of physicians' shop-talk, though I found the idea of Holmes being jealous preposterous. Then I was struck by an observation I have previously overlooked.

"What brings you to Baker Street at so early an hour?" I asked. Then, as a chill crept over me I could not help but add, "Has there been another murder?"

"No, not as yet," Ives said quickly. "It was warm last night; it could be the villain didn't wish to chance it. However, General Malkin has received another message this morning." He withdrew a square of paper from his breast pocket gingerly. Holmes accepted it with equal care so as not to disturb any clues he might glean from it, though his haste to retrieve his lens betrayed his eagerness. For my part, I chose to fortify myself with a cup of coffee before my friend drained the pot to the grounds. Ives, too, seemed to have partaken if the second stained cup on the table was any indication.

I was used to Holmes and his methods and was content to wait for him to relay his observations. The older doctor, however, was not and watched the detective with open fascination. I could not blame him. Holmes began by turning the piece of paper cautiously between his fingers, testing the thickness, weave and heft of the paper, holding it up to the light. Then he brought it close to his face, nearly pressing his nose to it. Finally, Holmes examined every inch of its surface, front and back, all the while whispering to himself under his breath.

It was at the end of his examination, I believe, that Holmes deigned to actually read the message. It was then that his face went still and grim, his lips pressing together in anger. "Dr. Ives, you said the general received it this morning?"

"Indeed. His maid found it tucked into an iron curl of the front railing shortly before six."

"That would account for the smudges of rust here and here then," Holmes muttered. "Confound it! I thought I had something new to go on at last!"

"What _have_ you been able to deduce about the sniper," I asked, "provided, of course, that he is a sniper?"

"Very active fellow between the ages of thirty and forty, right-handed, strong character, exceptional command of the English language as well as what is presumed to be army slang, well-educated, favors pens with blunt or rounded tips, occasionally forgets to add soda to the logwood ink he uses, excellent shot with jezail rifles, has not been in England long, has not read your stories, is ruthless, cunning, clever, and resourceful," Ives answered with Gatling-gun rapidity.

Holmes confirmed this with an absent-minded wave of his hand, his attention still on the piece of paper in his hands. Clearly he had related this to the doctor before I had left my bedroom. I found I was mildly surprised by this. Holmes does not disclose his theories readily and I was under the impression he was still vexed at Ives for having revealed his deception to me. Perhaps they had sorted out their differences, having found common ground in reading other people's mail.

"What about your investigation at Chamberlain's home? Have you any idea as to why he was the first one to be killed?"

"If the late doctor's personality was anything to go on, I am only surprised he was not murdered sooner," Holmes admitted, finally tearing his gaze away from the latest taunt. "Only his skills as a diagnostician saved his practice from utter ruin. Heaven help those who tried to dissemble with him. Of course, it is no great trick to deduce a man has broken his right hand in a brawl rather than slammed in it a door, as he claimed, but to refuse to treat the patient until he confessed does take things to new level."

"My God!" I exclaimed. "Did he really?"

"That would not be out of character for Douglass," Ives said wryly. "I've heard of him reducing women to tears because of the flimsiness of their tales."

"I found no less than four instances within the past week of such encounters," continued Holmes. "Mrs. Julia Eddowes I shall not comment upon for the sake of a delicate matter and a lady's privacy, save to note her visit was paid twelve hours before the murder. Mr. Gregory Cronkle, who complained of generalized stomach pains, paid a call five days before the murder. He was most reticent about his symptoms and even more hesitant to permit an examination."

"Probably was up to things he ought not to have meddled in," said Ives knowingly.

"Indeed. Before his consultation had concluded, Dr. Chamberlain had Cronkle admitting that he had engaged in some unlawful fisticuffs and even more unlawful wagers that may have resulted in some worrisome internal injuries. I read the late doctor's notes. Scotland Yard interrogators could have learned a thing or two from the deceased.

"The other two gentlemen were most interesting indeed, one Mr. William Thereau who visited three days before the murder and one Mr. Thomas Atkins who visited two days before the murder. They were both new patients. Thereau was the unfortunate gentleman with the broken hand. He was most insistent that a careless cabby had slammed a door on it and Chamberlain was equally insistent that Thereau was lying. It was not until Chamberlain threatened to show him the door that Thereau admitted to having broken it in a brawl the previous night. If my memory serves, that was the night there was a fight at the Dragon and Swan that resulted in the destruction of some valuable private property. Small wonder Thereau was so reluctant to disclose the true events."

"And Mr. Atkins?" I asked.

"A most curious fellow, Atkins," Holmes said. "Chamberlain's notes say there was some sort of skeletal deformation about the neck and upper thoracic vertebrae but the patient himself refused to admit to anything more than vague and generic symptoms. Nor would he tolerate any examination. The doctor by his own admission brow-beat him; Atkins chose to leave after some heated words."

"Strange," I said slowly. "I wonder if he too had engaged in that fight at the Dragon and Swan."

"It is possible. Unfortunately neither patient left any contact information."

"But you're not going to allow that to stand in your way!" Ives exclaimed impatiently. "If you can trace a man halfway across London with a scent hound and a barrel of creosote then you ought to be able to find those two men."

Holmes raised an eyebrow and spoke with exaggerated patience. "Of course I can, Doctor, but to what purpose?"

"To what purpose? To determine if either one of them is the sniper, of course!"

"No," I said, realizing what Holmes was getting at. "Thereau couldn't possibly be our man, not if his right hand was recently broken. There would have been a difference in handwriting in the note General Malkin received this morning."

"Which there was not," Holmes put in. He nodded approvingly at me. "Pray continue, Watson."

I did not care to speculate as to why Holmes sounded faintly smug at my proving Ives wrong so I chose to ignore it for the time being. "Atkins is a more likely suspect, although a man with a neck injury would probably not choose to go clambering onto rooftops."

Ives made a grumbling noise of agreement. "That would depend on the nature of his ailment," he protested.

"There is that possibility and that is why I spent a good part of yesterday in pursuit of Mr. Atkins," acknowledged Holmes.

"And what did you learn?"

"That there are a good many Thomas Atkins in London, at least seven of whom fit Chamberlain's description. There are more expedient methods of investigation I mean to try before I pin my hopes on Atkins. Of course, should you wish to try your luck with him as well as with the pension angle, I shall not stand in your way," Holmes added, somewhat caustically. "We will be able to cover more ground if we split our forces today."

"Thank you. I think I _shall_ try my luck," Ives replied, voice serene but eyes glinting in challenge. "Doctor, would you care to join me?" he asked but without doing me the courtesy of looking directly at me. I saw Holmes's eyes narrow for the briefest of moments before he resumed his expressionless mask.

It was during the ensuing uncomfortable pause that I gave up trying not to see what was before my eyes. They were actually competing with one another on this case! I would not have believed it of two intelligent and formidable men save for the evidence. Holmes was not used to having his investigations intruded upon, especially by clients, and Ives was accustomed to being obeyed. I only hoped this professional jealousy could be put to good use rather than hampering our efforts.

Moreover, I devotedly wished to add no more fuel to their fire. I was on the verge of suggesting that Ives look into the pension theory by himself whilst I alone tracked down Thomas Atkins when Holmes surprised me.

"Dr. Ives, that is an excellent idea," said he quietly and with perfect sincerity. "Let us reconvene here at six tonight and exchange intelligences." Holmes drained the last of his coffee and disappeared into his bedroom. "I suggest you alert Mrs. Hudson if either of you require breakfast," he called out before reappearing more respectably clad. He snatched up his hat and stopped in the doorway, looking at us gravely.

"And for pity's sake, take precautions when you go out." He paused. "Both of you."


	9. Forbidden to Kill

CHAPTER NINE

_It is forbidden to kill; therefore all murderers are punished unless they kill in large numbers and to the sound of trumpets. -- Voltaire_

_**Holmes**_

As it is with reasoning, there are two ways to approach a case: to start with one particular and work outwards or to start with generalities and work inwards. I have used both methods in the past with equal success. The trick is knowing when to use which method. In this case, combing all of London for one particular Thomas Atkins was not the most efficient method. I strongly suspected the fellow was involved somehow but I was confident that, should he prove to be of some importance in our investigation, we would find a way to flush him out.

Besides which, the lead I wished to pursue today I very much wanted to pursue alone.

Dr. Ives's suggestion that he and Watson combine forces today had proved a stroke of luck indeed. I had sworn to myself not to shield Watson from the details of this case again, but my conscience was quite clear as I set out. It was not withholding pertinent information from him if I chose not to mention that I needed more information about Afghani or Indian snipers, their strategies and their motives.

Watson was going to have a difficult time of it already without my adding to his burden. For that matter, Ives was having no easier time of it himself, though I could easily see him cutting out his tongue before admitting to it. The last thing either of them needed was my probing questions that would only stir up wretched memories. The case itself was doing that already. Moreover, I was not certain they had the expertise I needed to answer my questions. And without that, I had no hope of understanding why a man so obviously familiar with the English language and the British army would choose to wield an enemy's weapon with such deadly precision on former members of said army.

I was gratified to see my staunch Irregulars keeping their watch at the doorway. My orders were to abandon their post only if I accompanied Watson myself. Now that my friend knew of the danger he would take the necessary precautions himself; their presence was not required. Nevertheless, an extra set of eyes and ears -- to say nothing of fists – never went amiss. I paused but a moment to pass them their weekly pay before continuing on my way.

I spent the next few hours up to my ears in field reports and military descriptions. I learned that the jezail rifle is made by hand but with such an eye for precision and aesthetics that the finished product is just as ornate as it is lethal. The butt is indeed curved almost as a sickle; the barrels are easily three feet in length, sometimes rifled but sometimes not. Often they are loaded with lead balls but in the absence of lead the Afghan soldiers would use whatever scrap metals were at hand. I repressed a shiver, thinking back to Chamberlain's fatal wound and Watson's near-fatal one sixteen years prior.

I confirmed my friend's report that these weapons were very tricky to reload, sometimes taking up to two minutes to fully prepare. As a result, those who wielded jezails strove for perfect accuracy with the first shot, choosing quality over quantity. The soldiers did carry two rifles whenever possible, although to do so was a mark of honor. Likewise, it was a sign of shame for a tribesman to be bereft of a rifle, even though many of them relied on knives for defense. The religious _Ghazis_ favored knives especially.

I read of their tactics -- how they would choose high, rocky vantage points only they knew of, or secrete themselves in ditches or behind low mud walls to catch their victims unawares. Such had been the methods used during the retreat from Maiwand. It turned me cold and sick to read of how many men had survived the battle only to lose their lives during the nocturnal attacks. I went sicker yet to think of Watson among them, already grievously wounded. Yes, it was far better that he had accompanied Ives today rather than me.

Clearly the sniper had spent some time learning the ways of the natives but why, and how? For that matter, when? Why this specialized vendetta, and why here? There were plenty of doctors still serving in India and Afghanistan; why target only those in London? And why now? There were no major skirmishes currently in those countries. What had been our man's catalyst?

With these thoughts swirling about in my brain, I made my way to Scotland Yard. It was mostly curiosity that drove me to see if Gregson had indeed delegated the Chamberlain murder to Lestrade; that, and a pressing need for a sounding board, any sounding board, since Watson was unavailable.

I was not surprised to learn of the change of case owners, nor at Lestrade's disgusted reaction to the change. I was even less surprised to learn he had not connected Chamberlain's murder to the harassment cases. For a moment I wavered. Then I decided the more minds there were put to solving this case the better, and I told him all I knew. To his credit, Lestrade's face darkened with concern. I took far more comfort in his queries about Watson's safety than I did his reassurances that he would get to the bottom of the matter. I maintained a tactful silence concerning the latter. At least the little inspector had grasped the importance of reading Chamberlain's records, and had identified Atkins as the most likely suspect.

"Well, of course we are pursuing that lead as best we can," Lestrade scoffed. "But really, Mr. Holmes, do you have any inkling how many Thomas Atkins there are in London? Besides, it's quite likely that name was an alias."

I had, of course, considered that possibility but that Lestrade should come upon such an idea was rather astonishing. "What makes you say that?"

He raised his eyebrows at me while the ghost of a smirk played about his lips. "Don't you know? 'Thomas Atkins,' or more often 'Tommy Atkins,' is army slang for a private soldier. And what with Dr. Chamberlain having been an army doctor, no doubt he saw through that fellow's blind."

I let Lestrade have his little crow of triumph over me; heaven only knew how much he had endured at my hands. It was a just price for the clue he had given me. Now I required solitude and silence in which to ponder it. Somehow I made my way from the Yard back to Baker Street, which the doctors and the Irregulars had vacated. It was just as well. I had forgotten to replace my depleted supply of pipe tobacco and so made due with a box of cigarettes a tobacconist client had gifted me some months before.

The link to the British army rang truer now than it had before. Yes, our man had to have 'taken the queen's shilling' at one point in his life. If he were recently discharged, or if he had been held captive by some enemy force and recently liberated, that would explain his timing. It would also explain his unfamiliarity with Watson's writings, or rather, with Watson's own military and medical history – a fact for which I was still unspeakably grateful. On the other hand, a private soldier was not likely to have extensively studied Afghan fighting styles. That increased the probability that he had been a prisoner among them, or perhaps even one of our spies dispatched to live among the natives for a time. The source of rage against former army doctors was more uncertain though it was likely he blamed the doctor or doctors attached to his regiment for some negligence or misconduct.

I deduced he himself had been on the receiving end of such negligence or misconduct. There was the deformity of the neck and upper back of Chamberlain's patient to consider (though how debilitating an injury it was was debatable, given the rooftop position of Chamberlain's murderer.) It would also account for the villain's ability to identify his targets. Ives himself had created and maintained his chain of communication through, as he put it, "the friends and acquaintances of friends and acquaintances." And, I remembered, he had limited his contacts to those with whom he personally had interacted during his military experiences. Therefore, the sniper had himself served in Afghanistan and India; both countries, since he picked out former army doctors who had served in either country.

It was possible he had a confederate somewhere although I highly doubted it. Snipers worked alone. That was the nature of the beast. Therefore, this former soldier had to have personal contacts yet among the army somehow.

The paper and ink bespoke of a desk job, but one that kept him in touch with military comings and goings. He might be a recruiter, or a records keeper, or . . .

Confound it! I laughed to myself sourly. It served me right for having been so illogically biased against the old surgeon and his ideas. Ives was right – there _was_ a vital clue to be had among the pension offices!

_**Watson**_

"Confound it! Your Mr. Holmes was right about the pension offices!" Ives grumbled on our way back to Baker Street late that afternoon. "It seemed such a sure thing, too."

"You were right with all but two men," I pointed out, trying to placate him. It had been a long and tiring day. The last thing I wanted to listen to was how we had wasted our time, especially since we had been unable to locate Thomas Atkins. "Even Chamberlain was pensioned for a short time."

"Yes, but since General Malkin was the first one to receive any threats and has never drawn, it punches quite a hole in the theory," retorted Ives. "That General Preston also never drew any pension and yet received that pigeon on his doorstep adds no credence to my theory either." He sighed heavily. "I cannot believe we failed to find Chamberlain's Mr. Atkins."

"Yes," I mused. "Especially since there's something about the name that's very familiar. Perhaps he goes by his middle name or a nickname."

"Like Tom or Tommy?"

"Yes, Tom Atkins or Tommy Atkins . . ." We both froze and looked at each other in disbelief. "Tommy Atkins," I repeated slowly, then groaned dismally. "What a fool I've been!"

Ives shook his head. "If you're a fool then so am I. I've served far longer than you have, don't forget. Well, we needn't feel too ridiculous over not having found a man who's no more real than leprechaun gold . . . only that it took until now to realize it."

"Perhaps you would like to be the one to explain that to Holmes?" I asked as our cab arrived and we disembarked.

Ives made no response, other than to suddenly tense and stand perfectly still. "Doctor," he hissed out of the corner of his mouth, "we are being watched."

* * *

_Note from Pompey: I take full responsibility for the evil cliffhanger in this chapter. KCS is utterly blameless. Please aim all rotten produce in my direction, not hers. (Hey, I gotta protect my collaborator!)_


	10. No Innocent Bystanders

CHAPTER TEN:

_War isn't Hell. War is war, and Hell is Hell. And of the two, war is a lot worse (because) there are no innocent bystanders in Hell. – MASH, TV series_

_**Watson**_

At Ives's words, my hand without the slightest hesitation flew to my coat-pocket, in which I had placed my revolver that morning as some protection against the danger in this case.

"Watched by whom?" I returned in an equally low voice, not looking behind me.

"The only one I can see is a mere child – but there could easily be a far less innocuous shadow," the man replied.

A mere child…oh, of course. I cautiously glanced behind me and indeed saw the lad I was expecting to see, for he made no move to disguise the fact that he was following us. Holmes's instructions must still be in effect.

I pushed down the urge to laugh, but Ives looked so dubiously at my grin I believe he was wondering if I had taken leave of my senses.

"Watson –"

"It's all right, Ives. Alfie!" I called back down the street, "come here!"

"You know the lad then?"

"One of Holmes's band of street urchins – they run errands and such for him in his cases upon occasion," I told him. "You remember I told you Holmes has been having me shadowed everywhere I went?"

"By _children_? I was rather hoping for someone a bit more able in the event of an attack!"

I shrugged, smiling as the boy slunk a bit guiltily up to me.

"Mr. 'Olmes said we was ta follow yew oll th' time unless 'e was wit' yew 'imself, Doctor," the lad began a hasty explanation.

"Yes, yes. Alfie, this is an old friend of mine, Dr. Ernest Ives. Ives, Alfred Samuelson."

"'Ello," the lad mumbled, glancing uncomfortably up at the windows of 221B. No doubt he was wondering if Holmes were watching this breach of instructions.

Ives's bushy eyebrows had lifted a bit as the boy fidgeted on the pavement. "Have you been following us all day, lad?"

"Umm, yes," he replied uneasily, obviously ill-at-ease under the formidable man's scrutiny.

"Well you did a deucedly good job of it, for I hadn't noticed until now," the old doctor went on, the barest hint of a twinkle forming in the back of his eyes.

Alfie grinned. "Oi been taught by Mr. 'Olmes 'imself, y'know."

"Yes, we know," I said dryly, glancing up at the window and seeing a curtain fall back into place – Holmes had been watching the whole escapade no doubt with great amusement.

"Is everythin' oll right, Doctor? Dr. _Watson_, oi mean," he hastily added, glancing in confusion from Ives to me, "Mr. 'Olmes looked awful worried this mornin' when 'e left."

"Nothing you need concern yourself about, lad," I sighed.

"If'n yew say so, Doctor."

"Run along now, we're going inside," I said, giving the lad a gentle push down the pavement, for he looked as weary as we were after the long day.

"Nope. Not 'til yew's both inside, Doctor, Mr. 'Olmes's orders," Alfie said stubbornly, pushing my hand away.

Ives chuckled. "Let's go, Watson. I enjoyed meeting you, Alfred."

"Alfred!" the lad's indignant reply and subsequent muttering caused a grin to break across the old doctor's face, and I matched the look as I put my key into the lock of 221B.

"Only Holmes calls him that when he's extraordinarily irritated," I said with a chuckle, hanging my hat in the hall.

"Which probably is rather often, I should think. He doesn't seem the child-loving type."

"He doesn't seem to be the anything-loving type, but you would be surprised," I replied softly.

"Doctor – and Doctor – there is a cold supper waiting if you've both tired of skulking down there!" Holmes's bellow floated out the sitting room door and down the stairs towards us.

Ives snorted. "I'll wager he will be inordinately pleased that my theory was shot full of holes today."

"Not a pun in the best of tastes, considering the circumstances," I said with a wince.

I received another snort, of amusement this time, and he followed me into the sitting room. I cringed as I perceived an empty box of cigarettes on the table and prayed Holmes had not seen fit to use some domestic object like a coffee cup for his ashes; that would certainly not be a good impression on a man who obviously already was leery of my friend.

Although it took no Holmesian deduction to see that that feeling was quite mutual.

Holmes glanced up as we entered, pouring himself a cup of tea and cocking a questioning eyebrow at me.

"Yes, thank you," I sighed, more collapsing than sitting across from him in my usual seat.

Ives hesitated for only a fraction of a second before appropriating the third chair and helping himself to the tea after Holmes had fixed and handed me mine and then relinquished the pot.

"Dr. Ives, you will be pleased to hear, no doubt, that I am in agreement with you over the pension office being a vital clue," my friend said stiffly, as if the very admittance were causing him pain.

Ives stopped mid-sip to look at him over the rim of the cup, then glanced at me in consternation. I sat back with a weary sigh, knowing we were in for a long hour or more of rehashing this sordid case.

_**Holmes**_

I was very thoroughly bemused by the time Ives had taken himself off in a cab and Watson had gone up to bed later that night. I had been so sure that Ives was correct after all, that the pension office was indeed a major clue in the affair, that this sniper was involved in some such occupation that would give him access to records of ex-army doctors stationed in India and Afghanistan.

But if Malkin and Preston had neither one been pensioned and yet had still been harassed – indeed, Malkin was the very first to be – then what possibly could explain that abnormality in an otherwise sound chain of reasoning?

As I was so fond of reminding those Scotland Yard detectives, it is not wise to attempt to twist the facts to fit a theory; therefore my theory would have to be discarded. But every instinct I had was against the action. There had to be some explanation that would fit all the facts as we knew them, but one was not coming to me at the present moment.

That might have something to do with the fact that I had now gone nearly forty-eight hours without sleep. But there was no time to waste on such trivialities. We had gone a whole day and found out next to nothing about the case – even Ives admitted to being unable to find an explanation for the whole distasteful business.

I slumped down in my armchair, absently making a mental note to send Alfie or one of the lads to the tobacconist's tomorrow early, for I was now running desperately low on my thought-accompaniments.

This whole wretched affair was simply repellant – not to mention the fact that it was making me far, far too uneasy and in consequence too sensitive regarding the details of Watson's time in the army. One of the benefits of detachment was being immune to the details that would make a familiar squirm – and I had long since broken the barrier there.

The more I saw of this whole mess, the more I found myself not only finding newfound respect for Watson – and to some extent Ives – for what they had endured in Her Majesty's service, but also a deep, heartfelt fear that were this case not wrapped up with fair rapidity, it could lead to a veritable living horror for one or all of us.

As if in grim agreement to my sombre thoughts, through the open sitting room door I heard a muffled cry from the direction of the upstairs. _My poor Watson_. He had been plagued already by enough demons to last a lifetime – had been prone to nightmares for years after leaving the army, though they had faded with time. But no demon that powerful remains dead – buried, perhaps, but not dead.

Waffling indecisively for only a moment, I let my feelings decide rather than my thought processes this time, and as another muffled noise of distress reached me I took the steps two at a time and gently pushed Watson's bedroom door open.

A ridiculous lump formed and tightened in my throat as I saw him tossing almost feverishly upon the bed, giving a soft moan and clutching the blankets in an unconscious death-grip. He did not deserve to be tortured thus, and the fact made me both angry and saddened.

I walked over to the bed slowly, wondering if I should wake him – for despite our long association and deep-set regard for each other, he still had his pride, and it went very deep indeed. I would never dream of sullying it, but I would not intentionally allow him to suffer either.

As he turned over again with a sharp cry of distress I instinctively reached out a hand to him, but he snapped himself awake on his own once more, as he had last night. And naturally, all he could see upon awakening so abruptly was a tall figure looming over him in the darkness.

I could have kicked myself when he gasped in something near to panic, throwing himself to the side to snatch his revolver from its resting place on the bedside table with the clear instinct that has saved both of us many times in the face of danger.

I hastily reached out and caught his wrist before he reached the gun, and realised he was trembling. "Easy, Watson, it's all right."

I felt him stiffen, then go limp, dropping back upon the pillow for an instant and closing his eyes in relief. "Holmes."

"My apologies, old fellow – I had no intention of startling you like that," I said hesitantly, carefully avoiding the use of the word _frightening._

"The gas."

"What?"

"Turn it on, would you please?"

I obeyed instantly, my concern mounting at the paper-thin edge of composure I could hear quivering in his voice. As the light flooded the room, he finally opened his eyes and blinked at me, a look of utter relief filling his face as I stood there, unsure of how to proceed.

"Better?" I asked the rather ridiculous question.

"I could have shot you, you know," he said with only a trace of a smile.

I shrugged nonchalantly, fidgeting uneasily with the belt of my dressing gown, for I had absolutely no idea what to do now without it sounding condescending or patronising.

Watson took a long deep breath, then sat up, pushing the pillows into position behind him and leaning back, glancing at me and then to the chair standing beside his bed. I took that as an invitation and sat a little uneasily.

"More about the sniper?" I asked with hesitation.

He shook his head, rubbing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as if getting a headache. "No. No, about the hospital at Peshawar," he replied, so quietly I could scarcely hear, "where I first met Ives."

I shifted in my chair, wishing for the familiarity of my pipe.

"About the – the typhoid?" I asked finally, when he volunteered no more information.

He looked sidelong at me before speaking. "Told you about that, did he?"

I nodded. "This morning. Watson, I…am sorry."

He turned his head toward me, a wry smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Whatever for?"

Indeed, what for? "For not being there?" I offered uncertainly.

This time the smile made it all the way onto his face. "Well if not the first time round, you're here the second time," he said meaningfully with a small sigh. "I apologise for disturbing you the last two nights."

"Rubbish," I growled hotly. "You know full well that's a ridiculous thing to say."

My friend gave a dry chuckle, casting one more glance around the room before putting the pillows back down and reclining once more, his eyes fluttering closed exhaustedly.

"Watson, can I do anything?"

"You already have," he murmured quietly, already starting to relax and return to sleep.

I took the grateful hint and rose, moving to turn down the gas. I debated for a moment whether to leave it partially lit – but no, that would be rather an insult to his control were I to do so. I glanced back at him and received a weary smile of thanks, and then I put the room into darkness once more.

But I did leave his door ajar, and my own as well when once I retired for a few hours' sleep myself.


	11. Two Soldiers and a Villain

CHAPTER ELEVEN

_Two soldiers and a villain are enough to blow up the rights of the citizens. - Franz Grillparzer_

_**Watson**_

I immediately poured myself a cup of coffee upon sitting at the breakfast table and drank it black. The heat and bitterness helped clear my head of the residual fog of sleepiness. Even so, my eyes felt gritty and there was a sluggishness in my movements I would not be able to hide for long. I glanced at Holmes furtively; he seemed to be engrossed in the newest edition of _The Times_. Relieved, I poured a second a second cup of coffee, this time with milk and sugar. I didn't usually take both simultaneously but later on I might need the extra energy they would provide.

"If you keep that up, we shall have to warn Mrs. Hudson to purchase extra coffee this week," my friend said in a low voice, "regardless of whether or not Ives continues to grace us with his presence in the morning."

I looked at him, startled and perplexed. His gaze was still directed at the newspaper in front of him, the silver coffee pot was not an angle conducive to reflections, and I had consumed my first cup of coffee quickly and silently; and I said as much.

"Precisely," Holmes replied, finally looking up from the paper. "You were far too quiet. It is not your custom to take your coffee black and yet the only sound was the pouring. There was no rattle or clink that would indicate you had added anything. It was only after the second pouring that I heard such sounds. And you normally do not consume two cups of coffee within a span of five minutes. I hope you do not intend to make a habit of this?"

I suppressed a yawn. "I'm not planning to, no." I did not add that I did not plan on having nightmares alternating with insomnia every night either, but I really had little say in the matter.

Holmes favored me with a concerned look, no doubt deducing exactly why I was so tired this morning, but tactfully said nothing more about the matter. "We are back to combined forces today, Watson. If I didn't know otherwise, I might think Ives was trying to get out of helping us find the connection between the victims of the case."

"A medical practice will take only so much neglect, especially one situated in the West End," I commented. "Besides, you had his word he would meet with us tonight."

"And he seems to be a man of his word," agreed Holmes and turned his attention back to the newspaper while I looked on curiously.

"What article has so captured your attention this morning?"

"It seems the official force, with its great capacity for finding patterns under its very nose, has determined that the murder of Dr. Douglas Chamberlain may be connected to the on-going harassment of London doctors." He passed me the article with a flourish. "You see, not much can get past the celebrated Inspector Lestrade."

I forebore to answer, skimming over the article myself. "There is no mention of the rooftop or the cobblestones. Or of India or Afghanistan, for that matter."

"No, I advised Lestrade it would be prudent to leave certain key details out of the papers. There is no need to advertise our knowledge to the murderer."

"_You_ advised? But how did he know of the key details to leave out?"

"I told him."

"You told him!"

"Really, Watson, perhaps you _should_ have another cup of coffee if all you can do this morning is echo back my words to me," Holmes said severely. "Yes, I imparted our discoveries and our failures to the inspector. It certainly will do no harm to have an official line of inquiry complimenting our unofficial one." Grumpily, he began attacking his eggs with his fork.

I was, momentarily, as irritated with Holmes as I had been two days prior, when Ives first arrived in our sitting room. Then common sense reasserted itself. The case had my friend more disturbed than I had seen him in years. For Holmes to voluntarily share information with Scotland Yard prior to the case's conclusion spoke volumes for his state of mind. Naturally he was on edge; we all were. However, I reflected as I helped myself to the eggs, it would be a very long day indeed if either or both of us continued in this vein.

A long day it was indeed. We went over every nuance of the targeted doctors we could think of, from personal lives to the broadest generalities. Some were bachelors; some married or widowers. Some were fathers; some were not. Their ranks ranged from former Assistant-Surgeon all the way to Surgeon-General. As civilians, some preferred the simpler title of "Doctor" while a few officers continued to go by their ranks. Some of them had been discharged, some simply retired. Malkin was one of the latter although Preston was still active, the only one to be so. There was no definitive club they all belonged to. There were not patterns to be had in regiments they were attached to while in active service. Many were of British descent but a few had Continental blood in their veins. The pension statuses we had already discounted. In short there was nothing they had in common other than Afghanistan or India, and medicine. And there was nothing we could find separating those who had been targeted from those who hadn't.

I had thought to warn Mrs. Hudson of the impending chaos we would create; her comment, as she cleared away the breakfast things, was only to remark that we may create as much of a mess as we pleased so long as we didn't expect _her _to tidy it up. It was fortunate I had done so, as even I was taken aback by the mounds of papers that threatened to bury the sitting room completely by late afternoon.

Tacitly Holmes and I called a halt shortly before Ives was scheduled to arrive. I had developed a throbbing headache and my friend's demeanor had come to closely resemble a rudely-awakened tiger – so much so that rather than suggest we clear away some of the paperwork, I merely began to do so myself. To my abject relief, Holmes observed not only what I was doing by why and joined in without comment. Silently we cleared away enough of the mess to unearth a portion of the couch, and both of our chairs, into which we collapsed.

_**Holmes**_

The only thing that made the repose bearable was the fresh supply of tobacco Alfie had fetched for me that morning. Defeat is an anathema to me; it always had been. To complicate matters, every instinct of mine cried out that there was a simple solution. We only had to find it. I did not growl my displeasure aloud but no doubt I communicated it plainly enough.

"It really is too bad about the pensions," Watson said suddenly, with the ferocity of a man who has been thinking the same, futile thought repeatedly for some time. "If not for Malkin and Preston we might have our connection!"

I drew breath to reply and slowly released it without saying a word. Yes, if not for those two the pension connection would be flawless. Could it there was a secondary connection between those two we had yet to uncover? "They are both Surgeon-Generals," I said, merely thinking out loud. "In fact, they are the only Surgeon-Generals targeted." It was not much but it was a start.

"Yes, but Malkin is retired and Preston is still active," Watson pointed out, then laughed softly. I looked at him curiously, for I had found preciously little humorous in the situation.

"If you knew the man you would understand," explained Watson, smiling faintly. "Preston, that is; I have never met Malkin."

"Preston was your commanding officer," I remembered.

"I was Assistant-Surgeon to his Surgeon-Major," Watson agreed. "He was an excellent doctor and a fine soldier but one had the feeling there was not much of him apart from regulations. He was always the sort one expected to drop in the harness, as the saying goes. I wasn't the least bit surprised to hear he had made general. I don't think the man could retire if his life depended on it."

"When did he make general?" I asked. Somehow, that particular stuck out at me.

"May of this year, I believe. Early May."

I sat bolt upright in my chair and thrust aside my pipe. That was it. It had to be it. "Watson, this is vitally important. When in early May was Preston made Surgeon-General?"

He looked confused at my intensity, as well he might. "I'm sorry, Holmes. I really don't know. The only reason it caught my eye in the first place was because we had served together."

"_What_ caught your eye? An announcement?"

"Yes, it was in one of the papers." Watson held up a hand to forestall my next, inevitable question. "It wasn't _The Times_, it was one of the smaller publications." He paused, thinking. "It was _The Daily News_."

"You are certain?"

"Yes, why? Holmes, what are you --"

It was at that point I confess I stopped listening for I flung myself at the newly reorganized bundle of _Daily News_ and began tearing through them, looking for the May first through May ninth editions. It had to be; it was simply impossible that it was a coincidence.

Over the crackling and rustling of the papers I heard Watson's voice mingling with someone else's. Obviously Dr. Ives had made his arrival. Excellent! Three sets of eyes would make faster work of the articles than only two. Finally retrieving the necessary editions, I thrust three of them at Watson and three at Ives. "Here, read these."

"Whatever for?" demanded the elderly doctor, not moving a muscle while I cast my share of the newspapers across the floor.

"We are looking for the article about Surgeon-Colonel Alexander Francis Preston making Surgeon-General," I snapped. "It is imperative we do so, unless Watson can remember on what date he read of it?" I barely waited for his stunned reply to the negative to throw myself into the reading. For a long while nothing could be heard the occasional paging turning. Then . . .

"I found it!" Watson exclaimed. He held aloft the page triumphantly. "The news was printed on May the sixth."

"Ha! Excellent!" I could feel my blood racing at this new development. Oh yes, the case was gaining steam once again. "May the sixth! That could not be better."

"What on earth does that have to do with anything?" Ives snapped, wiping his ink-blackened fingertips on his handkerchief.

"_The Daily News _reports Preston's promotion to Surgeon-General on May the sixth," I explained, snatching up the useless remaining papers and shoving them into a pile. "Three days later, on May the ninth, a dead pigeon so twisted and contorted that its feather were covered in blood arrives on his doorstep. Hardly the congratulatory gift one would expect, even from an anonymous donor."

"You mean, the sniper learned of Preston through this article, not the pension office?" asked Watson.

"Exactly! And I'll wager he learned of Malkin in a similar article."

"Malkin announced his retirement on the first of February," Ives offered, nodding slowly. "He received the first note within the week. But what you are suggesting, Mr. Holmes, and what I cannot accept, is that the murderer has been using the newspapers as his main source material."

"Not at all," said I impatiently. "We have been laboring under the delusion that our man has relied on only one source, only one method of obtaining names and addresses. Certainly the pension offices provide him with most of his information but why on earth should he limit himself? Why shouldn't he utilize the newspapers when the data he seeks is there, readily available to the public? No, cunning fiend that he is, he takes his information where he can get it." I stopped abruptly, suddenly overcome by the enormity of what I had just said. The man was more crafty than I had anticipated. And Watson -- Watson was in even more danger now than I had realized. How could the situation get worse?

Then Ives's eyes glinted mischievously at me. "You do realize, Mr. Holmes, that you have just confessed I was right all along about those pension offices?"

* * *

_A/N: in real life A.F. Preston was made Surgeon-General on JULY 6, 1896 (not May.) But that just wouldn't work for this story so he got his commission a couple months ahead of schedule. (He's just that good!) _


	12. Ideal Doctor

Chapter One

_To me the ideal doctor would be a man endowed with profound knowledge of life and of the soul. - Henri Amiel_

_**Watson**_

Ives's eyes glinted mischievously at my friend. "You do realize, Mr. Holmes, that you have just confessed I was right all along about those pension offices?"

If that was not firing the first shot in a verbal war, I did not know what was, and I decided it would be expedient to remove myself from the inevitable cross-fire by collapsing into my chair by the fire, absently shoving away a pile of newsprint with my foot.

But to my surprise, Holmes barely even acknowledged the old doctor's words save for a thoroughly annoyed glare – he appeared rather preoccupied by something he obviously was not going to tell either of us.

"I am well aware of what I said, Dr. Ives; there is no need to remind me of my words. It is a most annoying habit that I do not need another person in this room adopting," he said dryly, scrambling to his feet and clutching the newspaper containing the article about Surgeon-General Preston, shooting me a wry grin by way of apology for his behavior that morning.

Ives's somewhat bemused expression faded rapidly into a concentrated frown as Holmes tossed the paper thoughtfully over his shoulder, re-lighting his pipe which had gone out during the search. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by our landlady, who opened the door to ask if Ives would be taking supper with us.

Ives's expression was one of unfeigned admiration as he took in the way Mrs. Hudson glanced round the paper-carpeted room, sighed tolerantly, glared at an oblivious Sherlock Holmes's back, and then vanished down the stairs for our supper.

I got up and began to clear the table of newspapers while Holmes paced and Ives ploughed a path to the couch and sat patiently, watching our actions. I cleared the table and three chairs and then sat heavily in mine, looking at Holmes.

"You're treading on those files," I ventured mildly.

"We must find this sniper immediately, gentlemen, before he can aim that infernal weapon at another doctor," Holmes growled suddenly, totally ignoring (or more likely not hearing) my remonstrances.

Fine; they were not _my_ files he was leaving footprints on anyway.

"He will see – probably already has – that Scotland Yard has made the connection between Chamberlain's death and the harassment of London army doctors. Either he will be so confident that he fears nothing based upon their dubious, past successes, or else he will continue to grow unbalanced and make a blunder. If the latter, we have him."

"And if the former, we are no closer to finding a solution than we were when I brought the case to your attention," Ives said dryly.

Holmes looked rather irritably at the old soldier. "You did not bring the case to my attention, Dr. Ives, merely accelerated my progress with your knowledge of facts I was in ignorance of."

"_Be that as it may_," I interrupted wearily before another sparring match ensued, "we cannot just wait for this fellow to take a shot at another victim. Holmes, how are we going to go about finding him?"

"As you were so kind in pointing out, Dr. Ives," Holmes said with a pointed look, "the pension offices have once again become the strongest link in the chain. Malkin and Preston were an abnormality in that respect. Our best chance in finally cornering this man is to find him within the pension office where he works."

"Mr. Holmes. Do you have any idea how many pension offices there are in London?" Ives demanded.

"Quite a few, I am aware," Holmes returned, bristling visibly.

"We cannot just blunder into these offices and ask if any of their employees have a spinal deformation – not only would that put him on his guard if he were to overhear, by the time we traced him through the office clue alone he could have murdered every army doctor in the city!"

Holmes's face flushed from its normal pallour. "This man is not a normal office employee, Doctor," he returned icily.

"Of course not," Ives retorted, "The ink alone in those notes would tell anyone that."

I blinked at that, but before I could interject Mrs. Hudson had entered with our supper. Holmes stopped his glaring and came to the table, and Ives awkwardly maneuvered round three stacks of files and another of newspapers before joining us.

But no sooner had the door closed behind our landlady than the discussion started up again. Holmes sent me a warning glance when I put a large slice of beef on his plate, which I promptly ignored, returning the look with one that told him he had better eat or he would regret not doing so as soon as we were alone.

"What was that about the ink?" I asked in a lull in the strained glances they were shooting each other.

"The soda –" Ives began at the same time that Holmes started to explain, and as they again glanced warily at each other I winced, making a mental note to address one of them at a time from now on.

Holmes hesitated for only a moment before shoving a forkful of potatoes into his scowling mouth. Ives took that as permission to continue and went on.

"You are a writer, are you not, Watson?"

"You both know that," I retorted, for I was thoroughly tired of the whole affair, and my head pounding like a hammer to boot.

"Would you ever forget to add enough soda to your ink when writing anything, let alone something you want clearly legible for posterity?"

"Of course not." I did not normally use logwood ink, but I did not feel up to pointing that out.

"There you have it. No man who writes on a regular basis would forget such a detail. Therefore, our sniper is not an average office worker in a pension office, as one might at first suppose. Am I right, Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes took a drink and nodded. "Quite. We may go so far as to say that this man does not come into frequent contact with paper and pen; therefore his duties in the office do not include office work. Which undoubtedly would be quite galling for someone as highly educated as this man obviously is."

He paused to tap his fork thoughtfully against his lips. "Which means that his occupation is in all probability a menial labour one, such as a janitorial position. What say you, Doctor?"

He was glancing at Ives, so I remained silent.

"It is the only one I can think of at the moment that fits that theory," the old doctor said cautiously.

"But his spinal deformation?" I asked. "Surely that would hamper him…no, he could scale a building with a three-foot rifle without being seen. It must not be that debilitating then."

Holmes nodded in agreement. "That still leaves us with the daunting task of tracking down which office and which employee – quite a lot of rather boring footwork is in store tomorrow for us."

I sighed, for the prospect was no more appealing than that of trying to sleep without another nightmare tonight. Both were rather disconcerting.

I glanced up from my plate to find both men looking at me, with something akin to concern in each cool gaze, different but yet the same.

"Gentlemen, I am not a specimen up for display," I said dryly. "What is it?"

Holmes grinned at my attempted humour, but the concern had not left his eyes. "If you have that bad of a headache, perhaps you should retire as soon as we are done here," he offered, sipping from his glass and looking at me over the rim.

I blinked, for to my knowledge I had not given any indication of the throbbing in my skull save a slightly shorter temper than was usual for me.

"I am sure I shall live, Holmes, but how did –"

Ives answered for him, gesturing to my face. "You have newsprint ink on the bridge of your nose. Obviously you have been pinching it, and also rubbing your temples, by the signs of ink in your hair there. In my humble experience, that is a rather common action for a person with a headache, mm?"

He said this calmly, but I could see him glancing at Holmes to see how the detective was taking his little flight into deduction. I tried to repress the smile that came when Holmes scowled and slunk down in his chair, grudgingly nodding in agreement.

I glanced down at my hands to see they were indeed still smudged with newsprint, and hastily rectified the situation on them as well as my nose as Ives turned to my friend.

"How do you propose we go about locating the correct employee in the correct pension office, Mr. Holmes? That's an enormous amount of cross-referencing, specially if we have nothing but the description of this so-called 'Atkins' chap to go on."

"You are right in regards to the cross-referencing, Doctor," Holmes admitted, "but we will not be starting with the pension offices."

"What? Why ever not?" I asked.

"We will be starting with Malkin."

Ives lowered his brows fearsomely in thought. "You want to know why he was the first to be targeted."

It was both amusing and exasperating to see my friend's demeanor brighten, ever so surreptitiously, whenever he was able to explain a point to Ives before the elderly doctor could reach it. "I already know why he was the first. Doctor, you said that when the attacks began you contacted those whom you had served with. And Watson, you said the reason the article about Preston's promotion caught your eye was because you had served with him."

"The sniper and Malkin served together!" Ives exclaimed, followed immediately with, "By God, man, Malkin has spent nearly forty years in the army. Can you fathom how many men he's served with, how many men he's treated? We'd be better off culling through the pension offices."

"Doctor," Holmes said, speaking just as severely to him as he had to me that morning, "I assure you we would not. We needn't pursue every regiment Malkin was attached to, only those that were stationed in both India and Afghanistan."

"Both countries, because the men he targets were stationed in both," I said, realizing what he was getting at.

"He received an injury to his neck and spine while serving; it could not be a congenital deformity or he would never have been allowed into the army," Ives continued slowly. "Very likely it was Malkin who treated him. There would be a record of that."

"All we need do now is find it," Holmes finished. "Once we have found it . . . we shall find him."


	13. Too Often Suffering

_It is not a case we are treating; it is a living, palpitating, alas, too often suffering fellow creature. - John Brown_

Perhaps Holmes's determined confidence was infectious, or perhaps my mind was becoming accustomed to the idea. Whatever the reason, that night was the first I was not plagued by nightmares since I had learned of the case, and awoke earlier than was my wont. I felt well-rested and yet I could not shake a vague sense of unease.

When I saw the thick letter that had come in the early morning post my alarm knew no bounds until I saw that it was addressed to Holmes. I, unlike some, would never stoop to reading another's mail so I waited anxiously for Holmes to emerge from his bedroom. Holmes looked mildly surprised to see me up so early but nodded amiably when I showed no signs of a restless night. I then pointed out his post. My friend took it up with eager interest. His usual observations of any and all mail that arrived at Baker Street were more cursory than usual and he tore into it like a child. I watched his eyes fly over the pages.

"Well, that does narrow our field down a bit," he commented at last and passed it over to me to read.

"What is it?"

"General Malkin's answer to the telegram I sent last night after you had retired. He must have dashed this off as soon as he received it."

I read through it quickly. Malkin had joined up in December of 1855, just in time to serve during the last few months of the Crimean War – actually cutting short his medical schooling to do so. He had been attached to the 13th Hussars cavalry and continued to serve with them until 1884, when the Hussars were withdrawn from India. Rather than return, Malkin asked to be attached to the 51st Foot, which he was, and he stayed with them until last year, when he arrived in England shortly before he announced officially his retirement.

He also had a few brief anecdotes about patients he had treated with neck and/or spinal injuries. The exact dates and locations were vague but the details he could recall were vivid. During their tour of Canada in the late '60s, a few soldiers went out to assist a local family with a barn-raising (a local family with three lovely daughters of marriageable age, Malkin recollected) when one of the beams came crashing down on two of them. It was a glancing blow to the back of the head for one but the other was knocked across the back and was paralyzed from the waist down.

In Leeds in the mid-1870s a drunken sergeant fell from a watch-tower and broke his neck, instantly fatal. In the late 1870s, near Agra, several soldiers were caught in a sudden rockslide. There were a few fatalities but Malkin wrote that there was more than one neck and spine injury he treated that day. Unfortunately, he could not be more specific than that. And during one of the minor skirmishes of the Second Afghan War, Malkin saw one corporal take a bullet between the shoulder blades; he later died of infection.

In the late 1880s, the 51st had rescued a soldier who had been held captive by Indian natives for some time, if his emaciated frame and leathery skin was any indication. Malkin remembered the man's neck was stiff and slightly angled -- undoubtedly from past torture as his body bore the unmistakable signs of it -- but the general had been more concerned with keeping the man alive. Finally, in November of 1895, he had seen a crazed native attempt – unsuccessfully -- to behead a private from behind with a curved sword. The sword was as dull as a butter knife but the blow was enough to cause some injury. Malkin did not know what had become of the soldier, other than he had still been alive and fairly mobile when the general left for England.

"It shouldn't be too difficult to find the reports on these incidents," I remarked, returning the letter to Holmes.

"No," he agreed, "although we still may need to read through all of his military reports. It is unfortunately quite possible the man we seek has passed through the general's memory altogether."

I sighed; perhaps Ives had had a point about going through the pension offices instead. "The soldier rescued by the 51st sounds promising," I said, trying to stay optimistic.

"Yes, as do the rockslide victims. The rest we may safely discount."

"Even the private who was attacked last year?" I asked, incredulous. "Come now, Holmes! Of all of them, that private has the most likely timing."

"The most unlikely timing, you mean. I'm quite serious, Watson," replied Holmes, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "If the private was attacked in November of last year and given a medical discharged immediately, we would still have to factor in his recovery time prior to his return to England. It takes several weeks for a ship to journey from India to Portsmouth, as well you know. Add in the time it would take him to make his way to London, find a job in a pension office, and begin his vendetta, and we would be well into March by my calculations. Besides, in that instance I should think he target Indians, not army doctors."

I was forced to admit my friend's reasoning was sound. "But what of the soldier injured in Canada? Not the paralyzed one, but the other."

"Apart from the fact it was thirty years ago and nowhere near Afghanistan or India, he has no reason for a vendetta against army doctors."

I sighed resignedly; at least we had the other two incidents to work with.

It took some little work to finally find the reports of the Agra rockslide and the 1880s rescue. The former had taken place in September of 1877, between skirmishes and expeditions. Several had been injured, as Malkin had said, and of those four had suffered injuries primarily to the neck and spine. Two complained of stiff, sore necks (in addition to contusions of varying severities), one had sustained what Malkin suspected was a fracture of the lumbar vertebrae yet was still able to walk, and the last said he had shooting pains through his neck and shoulders. It was this last soldier that Holmes deemed worthy of investigating and so we made a note of Subaltern David Fraser.

The rescued soldier's story was a peculiar one indeed. He had been found in 1888, during the First Hazara Expedition in the Black Mountain Range of the Northwest Frontier of India. In retaliation for the raids made on English settlements, forces were sent in to rid the land of the violent tribesmen. It was in one such tribal encampment that the 51st Foot came upon a withered, brown twig of man all mottled with signs of torture. He gave his name and rank as Sergeant Alexander Brownley. He knew not how long he had been held captive; he knew it was more than five and less than ten. He had been knocked unconscious by the force of a bullet during the Battle of Ali Masjid, back in November of 1878, and when he had come to he was captured and held in slavery by natives along the Afghani and Indian border. He had tried to escape many times but between his weakness and his ignorance of the land he had been found and dragged back to the encampment every time.

As a necessary precaution we did peruse the other medical reports though it was clear who our main suspect was. At last Holmes refilled his portion of papers. "I think, Watson, it would behoove us to see what information my trusted index back at Baker Street has to say about Mr. Brownley. The clerk has been looking anxiously at the clock for the past twelve minutes now and if arrives home late yet again his wife will do more than have words with him."

The clerk in question gave a start of surprise, having overheard Holmes. "You're absolutely right, sir, right on the mark, but how did you . . . ?"

"It was a series of elementary observations, the details of which I shall not bore you with," Holmes replied almost cheerfully. "Besides, I should not like to be the cause of your wife's ire by detaining you further."

The detective's good mood, while a welcomed change from his previous one, was perplexing. We had the name of our likely suspect but no means save Holmes's index to investigate him now. And the longer the case dragged on the greater the risk of another murderous attack.

"Oh, I am quite sure he will be in my index," said Holmes in answer to my query. "The name is faintly familiar to me."

Familiar it may have been but after flipping through the "B" edition of his index it soon became clear why. Alexander Brownley, formerly of the 51st Foot Yorkshires, had been dishonorably discharged in early 1892. Shortly thereafter he left a brief message that amounted to a suicide note and his overcoat was recovered from the Thames, weighted down with bricks. His body was never recovered. The Yard had dismissed it as a straight-forward affair.

Holmes's cheerfulness evaporated instantly. "Suicide, hah!" he snarled.

"You believe he faked his death?"

"There are deeper mysteries," Holmes replied at reached once again for his tobacco. "One such mystery is what name Brownley goes by today and in which pension office he may be found."

I forbore answering in favor of opening a window in anticipation of the smoke and fumes he would generate. It was a mild, pleasant night; Holmes could not possibly object to my desire to keep the sitting room's atmosphere somewhat bearable.

* * *

It was black as tar when I awoke, blinking away snatches of dreams. Something had awoken me but I did not know what. Then Holmes burst into my room with a candle. "Watson, we're needed. Dress quickly and meet me downstairs. The cab is waiting."

"Cab? What --?"

"I'll explain on the way, Watson, now hurry! There isn't a moment to lose!"

There has yet to be an instance where I have been awakened in the middle of the night for pleasant news. I obeyed with alacrity and within ten minutes Holmes and I were rattling down the street in the company of a sobbing girl who could not have been more than seventeen or eighteen and was clad in a maid's uniform.

"Now, Miss Stiles," my friend began soothingly, "you have been very brave tonight. We need to you be brave a little while longer. Take a moment to compose yourself and explain one more time, if you please, what has happened."

The girl drew a quavering breath and though her voice shook and stammered her words were still understandable. "It's the doctor, sirs, Dr. Philip Robinson. He's been shot. We heard a dreadful banging on the door and then after he answered it there was a gunshot. We heard him cry out something awful and when we went to him the blood was pouring down his arm. He yelled for me to fetch Dr. Ives and I did, and when Dr. Ives looked at him he said we'd better send for Mr. Sherlock Holmes. And so I did that but now . . . now I'm so frightened! " she finished with a sob before breaking down entirely.

Holmes and I said nothing, but I daresay we were both rather frightened ourselves.


	14. Stronger Than Trained Art

Chapter One

_'Tis not always in a physician's power to cure the sick; at times the disease is stronger than trained art. –Ovid_

_**Watson**_

"There now, Miss Stiles, you've been a brave girl tonight. Suppose you go and make yourself a cup of tea, and then bring some for the rest of us, hmm?"

When he wished, Ernest Ives could be as amiable as the personality that one normally expected from a physician, and his words had the desired effect on the maid for she gulped, nodded, and made a retreat from the room we had met in upon our arrival at Philip Robinson's residence. When the door had shut behind the poor maid, Ives then turned to Holmes, who was fairly dancing with suppressed impatience.

"To the point, Holmes. I'll tell you what has transpired here tonight and you relate what you've learned about this murderer."

"Robinson is dead then?" I gasped.

"Not yet, and not likely as long as he follows orders to remain in bed," Ives growled, "but it was a serious thing."

"The maid said he was hit in the arm?" Holmes asked impatiently, waving aside all else but the facts at hand in his usually peremptory manner.

"The left shoulder, actually," Ives said, his quick glance flitting to me, "nicked the subclavian artery – you heard the maid howling about the 'blood pouring everywhere'. A few pieces of the bullet are still in the wound and will remain that way, but the bleeding is stopping now at least."

I felt the colour drain from my face at his words, and my left fist subconsciously clenched in a pain of remembrance. Holmes glanced from me to Ives's serious face in some puzzlement for a moment, but then I could see the realisation dawn in his eyes as he recognised the similarity to my own injury.

"He'll be feeling the effects of this for the rest of his life," I said bitterly.

"He's fortunate he isn't in the state Chamberlain is," Ives retorted curtly with the air of a man who knows the past is irrevocable and therefore should not be thought too carefully upon.

"Yes, indeed," Holmes said instantly, either eager to leave the troubling similarity in the new victim's wound and my own, or else his curiosity about the event far outweighing it (I suspected the latter). "But this man is an expert shot – why is Robinson still alive?"

"According to what little he told me before you arrived," Ives said, "Malkin contacted him among others upon my suggestion, and pointed out the method of Chamberlain's death to him. He dismissed the affair as overzealousness on my part, but evidently as soon as he started to open the door he remembered the similarity in the 'strange pounding' and automatically dodged just as the shot was fired. His instincts saved his life but not his shoulder."

I shuddered. "How is he?"

"A good deal better off than you were," Ives returned dryly, "and his chances of contracting enteric fever in the heart of London are quite slim."

I tried rather unsuccessfully to break a smile, and Holmes shifted nervously on his feet before speaking again.

"May we see him?"

"I suppose, but right now he does need to rest a bit – if there is enough light from the street-lamps for your purpose, we could look around outside to find out how this fellow was able to 'pound' on the door this time. Then by the time we are done with our investigations, his pain will have subsided slightly and we will be able to get our facts in order."

Holmes bristled at the usage of the plural pronouns 'we' and 'our', but Ives either did not notice his miffed attitude or was pretending not to notice as we made our way outside.

"Tell me what you've discovered about the sniper's identity, Mr. Holmes. You _have_ discovered something, I hope?"

My friend scowled petulantly for a moment before recounting to the doctor what we had uncovered regarding this Alexander Brownley.

"Suicide? Far too convenient," Ives snapped, opening the door with understandable caution though the man was certain to be long gone from the scene of the sniping.

"My thoughts exactly. Now all that remains is to locate the man in the correct pension office. Robinson _was_ pensioning, correct?"

"Yes, and I believe quite recently too. You can ask the man himself shortly. See, he was standing here, or at least he was lying here bleeding according to the maid's story, after opening the door to an odd pounding noise," Ives said, and we peered out into the gaslit darkness.

"Simple enough," Holmes said warily, eyeing Ives to see if the man had followed his train of thought.

"Yes, I _had_ noticed the 'To Let' sign on the house across the street when I arrived as well," Ives returned dryly, "but that would mean that this sniper is an expert lock-picker as well as being a crack shot and a resourceful war-mad murderer."

Honestly, if the two of them were not attempting to out-deduce each other, then it appeared they were entering a contest to see who could be the most grotesquely in bad taste about matters like this one.

"It is not an extraordinarily hard skill to master," Holmes said absently, crouching down on the stoop to examine the door by the feeble red lamp. He frowned, then lit a match and scrabbled round on the sidewalk next to the door.

"More cobblestones?" I queried as he gave an exclamation of triumph.

"No," he replied, scrambling up and tossing the match onto the sidewalk, extending a large black chunk towards us. "Pieces of common coal – he must have come prepared this time to 'knock' upon the door."

"Are we going to go poking about the empty house in the dark?" I asked from behind a yawn, for it was not quite one.

"No, the sniper is long gone by now at any rate," Holmes growled, shutting the door upon the night air with rather more force than was necessary.

"I shall check on Robinson now," Ives offered, glancing at me once more before retreating to the bedroom in the back of the house, Holmes and I following at a more leisurely pace.

I turned back for a moment and felt a shiver run down my spine at the sight of the large sprawling bloodstain on the carpet in the hall, remembering all too well the shock and the agony of such an injury in my own experience. Holmes's sharp eyes followed my gaze down to the floor before traveling back up to my face questioningly.

"He was indeed lucky," I murmured.

"As you were," Holmes answered seriously.

I glanced at him as we made our way to the back of the house, and I saw that his face was much more sombre than was usual for him. No doubt he was learning more about the horrors of war in the last week than he had all his life.

Ives met us at the door of the room, stating that Robinson was lucid enough though in pain and rather weak from blood loss; but through the man's own efforts of an awkward bandage upon being shot and subsequently Ives's expertise the wound had been staunched as quickly as possible, minimizing damage from the loss of blood. The offending limb had been placed in a tight sling, the large shoulder wound bandaged as well, though stains of blood had soaked through the cloths already.

Still, the fellow's gaze was clear and alert, and he greeted us, me especially, quite amiably.

"Ives told me you were at Maiwand, eh?" he asked as I sat in a chair close to the bed, Ives on the other side and Holmes leaning casually against the wall.

I nodded. "Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers . . . and then the 66th Berkshires."

Robinson smiled tiredly. "Pretty rare to meet a 66th after Maiwand. I was with the 13th Hussars, myself, just after receiving my Bachelor of Medicine in 1880."

"Kandahar, then?"

The man nodded. "Basically just peacekeeping after the siege was lifted, where I met General Malkin – he's who passed on your name on to me, Dr. Ives, in his warning against this madman who's harassing army doctors," he went on, glancing at the older physician.

"But the Hussars were withdrawn to England in '84, were they not?" Ives directed a question of his own, glancing at Holmes to see that he was following the connections – Kandahar for Afghanistan.

"Re-attached to the 2nd Battalion Border Regiment – that's Waziristan in India, Mr. Holmes – until late last year," Robinson said, "'twas there that I took a bullet rather closer to the heart than was healthy, and received my medical discharge only last January, arrived London in late February."

"There you have it, Holmes," Ives said thoughtfully, "Afghanistan and Malkin, India, and the recently-begun-drawing pension angle, all three of them."

Robinson shifted on the pillow, wincing and closing his eyes at the obviously agonising movement. I felt more than a slight twinge of sympathy, for the man's story so closely paralleled my own in age and location that it struck a chord rather closer to home than I would have liked to admit.

Holmes was frowning thoughtfully, his mind obviously attempting to connect Robinson's being the next doctor targeted for murder with Chamberlain's death. Rather than standing there scowling at the detective Ives began to change the slowly soaking bandaging on the wounded man's shoulder.

I had turned to glance at my friend, hoping to see some spark of triumphant recognition in his eyes as this new development found its place in his mind, but instead I was only just in time to see his face drain of colour, even his lips fading to a sickly grey. I realised he was not looking at me but rather at the mutilated, freshly-stitched wound in Robinson's shoulder, set among a myriad of horrific bruises.

No doubt at times my slowness in pace or my inability to fully use my left arm had been a trifle frustrating to Holmes – as they had been to me, naturally – but he probably had never understood why exactly I had those disabilities until this moment, seeing for the first time what precisely had caused them.

"Yes, it is basically the same injury as your chronicler sustained sixteen years ago, Holmes," Ives's dry voice broke the deathly stillness, causing me to jump and Holmes's eyes to shoot over my head to the elder doctor's face. Evidently he had been watching Holmes's reactions and had deduced their cause correctly. "However I have to say that this is much easier to care for than his must have been, having proper supplies and tending the wound immediately rather than after an all-night retreat across a desert, with the villagers sniping at him the entire way."

Ives _did _have an irritating habit of speaking about a fellow as though he weren't standing right there yet my irritation was submerged under concern. I could see Holmes's throat working hard as he blinked and swallowed with difficulty, his eyes never having left the other two soldiers across from me. Ives began to re-bandage Robinson's wound and the latter lay motionless, lips taut against the pain – and how well I remembered that pain.

"Do you have any further questions of me, gentlemen?" Robinson asked tiredly, without opening his eyes.

Holmes swallowed again with a somewhat desperate gulp. "No, Dr. Robinson. Thank you very much for your time – Watson, I'm going to go find the maid and question her."

Without another word the detective hastily (I would have said _frantically_ were it any other man) left the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Ives shot me a mildly concerned look as if to say _question the maid, my eye._

I voiced my hurried thanks to the injured man upon the bed and then left the room in search of my obviously disturbed friend.


	15. All Up

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: All Up

_It was at this spot (Maiwand) that one of the men waved his hand cheerily to the Horse Artillery getting their guns away, and cried that historic farewell: "Good luck to you. It's all up with the bally old Berkshires!" – Sir Robert Baden-Powell_

_**Holmes**_

I had once written a school report on eagles, coolly reporting on their physiology and habits. I knew intellectually they were large, dangerous birds but then I saw a live specimen at the zoo. It was huge bird, impressive and ferocious. I saw the sharpness of its beak and talons, and the cold glare of its yellow eyes, and finally understood how the eagle had gained its status as a fearsome yet majestic hunter. It took seeing the thing in person, not my objective research, to make me finally grasp the nature of the creature.

So it was with me now, as I pulled deeply on a cigarette outside under the gaslight. I had read _A Study in Scarlet_, I had heard Watson speak peripherally of his military career, I had even seen the twisted scar on his shoulder briefly in the Turkish baths but I had not truly understood what trials he had undergone. Now I could not get my emotions under check. It was not only facing the horrors Watson also had faced but acknowledging my own failure to understand them.

I was also irritated with myself for allowing my emotions to get the better of me in the sickroom. There were so many questions I should have asked: had the doctor caught a glimpse of his attacker? Had he received any notes prior to the shooting? Did he have any recent correspondence from the pension office?

Then, too, I was more ill at ease when I thought of this criminal than I had been for many a year. With Chamberlain's murder, he had used what resources were available to him at the scene. This time, he had taken the initiative to bring his own materials with him. Then, the weather had been cool and the neighbors' windows closed. Tonight, the weather was warm and several windows were open. I did not like the implications.

Watson's voice and the maid's drifted to me through one such open window. It was only a matter of time before I was found. Hastily I schooled my face and halted my nervous pacing.

"Holmes?" my friend queried as he opened the front door. "What on earth are you doing out here?"

"Thinking. And smoking." When prevaricating, I have found it is better to err on the side of veracity.

"You haven't questioned Miss Stiles."

"No."

"Nor the housekeeper, who is still awake."

"No."

"Nor have you questioned any of the neighbors or, I presume, examine the house across the way for signs of forced entry."

"No, Watson, I have not!" My tone had risen into a shout and I hastily lowered it. "I apologize for that outburst. I was just about to check." Under his incredulous gaze I stubbed out my cigarette against the brickwork and crossed the street to the house with the "For Let" sign.

There were no signs of forced entry on the front lock. Logically Brownley, or whatever he called himself now, would wish for as much discretion as possible. However, if he gained entry via the rear door, that meant he would have had to cross through most of the house to reach the upper story window. That made no sense either, as the future landlord (or landlady) still occupied the lower story; the signs of that were evident. No lock-picking was done, then.

Could he have ascended the roof, as before? I began to circle the building with Watson following. There were no dog-sheds or trellises here. The closest thing was a wooden crate but it was too short to be of much use in that respect. There was an ancient ladder leaning against the side of the building behind the crate but it showed no signs of having born weight recently. Nor had it been moved, but there were traces of something in the space under the ladder.

"What is it?" Watson whispered as I crouched and lit a match.

"Footprints. And . . . a knee print." I looked up across the road. From this vantage point I could see Dr. Robinson's doorway. Anyone standing there would have been plainly visible, and the distance was short enough to hurl coal at the door. "He stood here to throw the coal, then knelt to take aim." I shook out the match before it could burn my fingers and lit another one. "When he failed in his attempt to kill he sprang up" -- I spread my hand over the heavy indentation in the silt – "and fled into that back alley. No evidence that he tried to reload for another shot. He must not carry a second rifle with him."

"The one would be unwieldy enough, I should think."

I nodded and stood. "Brownley is showing an unfortunate tendency towards versatility. Shooting from above and from below are both _modus operandi_ of Afghani tribesmen." Watson made no response to that; a glance at his face in the gaslight showed he was as disturbed by the events as I was.

Silently we returned to Dr. Robinson's home where I stopped on the doorstep. I did my best to ignore the fresh bloodstains on the wood and brick. My question would be difficult enough to ask without such gruesome souvenirs around us. "Watson, Dr. Robinson said it is rare to meet a man from the 66th Berkshires. Why? And why did the natives continue to shoot at you during the retreat from Maiwand?"

"It can have no bearing on this case," he protested. His concern at not wasting my time would have been touching had his face not, as always, betrayed his thoughts. He had no wish to revisit those memories.

I could not blame him. They would not to pleasant to hear and even less pleasant to relay. Even so, I knew avoiding the subject would not free him of past demons, of which there were plenty. For his sake, as much as for the case's, he had to speak of it. "I think it might. Consider, Watson. Alexander Brownley is an Englishman but he wields the weapon of an enemy against his own countrymen. We know he spent many years among the Afghani tribesmen and Indian villages. I have researched their methods but you have witnessed them firsthand. Any information you can offer in the way of their views and culture might aid our efforts to bring him in."

Watson's silence stretched on for what seemed an age, his face set like stone. Finally, when I had just begun to lose faith, he spoke. "Their views, Holmes, were perfectly understandable. They hated us, and not without reason. They were the sons of the men we had triumphed over in the First Afghan War. They were a prideful people caught between two foreign countries warring for their land. They had lost so many battles before Maiwand . . . "

Here he swallowed hard and his voice grew tinged with anger and disgust. "Maiwand was a disaster. We were outnumbered and outgunned. That wouldn't have mattered much had one section of our forces not broken rank and fled. With the line breached, we had to call retreat to Kandahar, some forty-five miles away. It was mid-afternoon with the sun beating down on us. There was no time to fill canteens," he added pointedly.

I understood full well what he meant. Thirsty, wounded men running for their lives through almost fifty miles of desert had all the makings of a calamity. "That was when you were wounded?" I asked.

"Yes." Watson paused for a long moment. "Murray and I were tending to as many wounded we could find when . . . well." He shrugged. "He convinced me to leave with the other wounded and I couldn't convince him to leave me. We were on foot and I don't know how long we walked before I – I couldn't go on. Heat and thirst and blood-loss . . . I don't know where he found the pack horse but he did. I have no doubt I would not have made it to Kandahar alive otherwise."

Nor did I, and he had not even mentioned the terrible pain he must have been in. Yet it seemed the situation had become wore. "But why the snipers? You were already retreating," I asked.

Watson sighed, a lifeless sound. "This victory of theirs was the moment they had waited for and they reveled in it. I said before that they hated us. I don't think I've ever encountered such a hatred before. The _Ghazis_ were the worst, sustained by their religious fervor and desire to rid their land of every infidel that breathed. Even the women and children attacked us, Holmes. They were not above falling upon wounded men with Khyber knives or throwing stones. There is a story of a woman making a banner of her veil to encourage the men onward, actually baring her face and breaking taboo to do so. I don't remember it happening but my Achilles tendon was clipped by another jezail during the retreat. Their aim was always appalling good, even in the dark. That retreat was just as deadly as the battle had been."

"Is that what happened to the 66th Berkshires?" I asked as gently as I could.

He shook his head. "No. The 66th rallied together to form a rearguard to allow the others a safer escape. They were cut down, to a man. The last of them made one final stand near some dry well. Eleven men and a dog literally surrounded on all sides by a hostile army."

Watson closed his eyes in pain. "It was a defeat so they couldn't receive battle honors. There were no officers left to make recommendations for Victoria Crosses. The best those men were offered was a few paragraphs of praise and a monument erected a few years ago." Suddenly he laughed bitterly. "It is a monument to a regiment that no longer exists. There was scarcely anyone left so the next year it was 

amalgamated with the 49th into the First and Second Battalions of the Princess Charlotte of Wales's Berkshire Regiment."

Whatever I had expected him to say, it was not that. The friends he had made in that doomed regiment had almost certainly died at Maiwand. The only reason Watson had escaped their fate was his orderly Murray and, ironically, the wound that had nearly killed him. I found myself speechless. He would not welcome pity and I was not sure I could express compassion without him mistaking the one for the other.

"My dear Watson," I began, my voice shaking slightly. I was interrupted by the harsh sound of a cleared throat.

"I'm sorry to intrude, gentlemen, but Miss Stiles informs me that the tea is ready."

I turned to glare but to my surprise, Dr. Ives showed no traces of superiority or sarcasm. Nor did he show any embarrassment at having interrupted what was clearly a sensitive conversation – rather, he looked as calm and authoritative as he had when directing the maid to prepare tea. Then he smiled kindly – _kindly? Ives?_ – and held the door open for us to enter.

"Dr. Robinson is asleep now and will remain so for several hours. I used the smallest dose of chloroform on him that I dared for the surgery and forewent morphine until you arrived," he explained as we took our cups in the sitting room. "I suppose I should have sent for the police but I preferred that you have the first look at the evidence, Mr. Holmes."

It was his way of complimenting me and I thanked him for it briefly. "Do you know if he saw the sniper?"

"He did not. He was turning and already had the door partly closed when he was hit. He did not even see the ignition flash."

"Did he receive any notes prior to the attack?" asked Watson. It was the first words he had said since telling me about the deadly retreat and he still looked morose.

"That I don't know," was the reply, still bereft of astringency. Dr. Ives sent my friend I look I couldn't quite interpret but it caused Watson to smile faintly, which was a marked improvement.

"Then there is only one question I have left to answer," I said and went to the side-table where I had observed the doctor's unopened mail.

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, thoroughly outraged. "Opening my correspondence is bad enough but I cannot allow you to open his!"

"I'm not going to open it, Watson," I replied, still flipping through the pieces of mail. "I'm looking to see if he has received – ha!" I pulled out that which I had been searching for. "This. An unopened correspondence from a pension office, presumably containing his pension cheque. That is a correct identification?" I passed it to Watson for verification.

"The layout has changed a little in ten years but yes, that is what it appears to be," he agreed.

"Dr. Ives, I presume you will be spending the night with your patient? I have a message I need you to pass on to him."

The elderly doctor eyed me warily. "And what is that message?"

"This cheque must not be cashed or deposited until I give the word. It is vitally important that he do so."

I had expected Dr. Ives to bristle at that and I was not disappointed. "Mr. Holmes, you do realize that cheque is what currently constitutes the man's livelihood. Forbid him from cashing it . . ."

"I am aware that following my instructions will cause some difficulties," I interrupted quickly, "for which I am willing to offer restitution. Nevertheless, this cheque must not leave this house until I tell him it is safe to do so."

"Safe to do so?" Watson echoed, puzzled.

"Indeed." I permitted myself a smile. "It would prove most inconvenient to have the cheque cashed or deposited when, starting tomorrow, two friends of Dr. Robinson will pay a visit to the pension office to report that said cheque was never received."

Dr. Ives smiled slightly himself. "And by reporting the missing cheque, these 'two friends of Dr. Robinson' may encounter a janitor in that pension office with a particular spinal deformity."


	16. Neighborhood of Spies

_Every man is surrounded by a neighborhood of voluntary spies – Jane Austin_

_**Watson**_

Dawn was just beginning to break through the fog when we returned to Baker Street, after finally convincing Lestrade that the case was perfectly fine in his capable hands – Holmes used the term loosely – and arranging to meet Ives for lunch after noon to discuss what our findings from the pension office would be.

Holmes immediately took himself to his bedroom upon our arrival, informing me that he was going to put on a disguise just in case we did indeed see or meet Brownley in this pension office.

"You really think he would recognise you so easily?" I asked from behind a yawn, for my brain was more sluggish than even normal at this ungodly hour of the day.

He called back to me through the open door while changing his cravat. "Not everyone in London knows yet that I am even alive, so why take the risk?"

"But if this chap hasn't read my stories, he would never even know you were ever dead in the first place."

"It is better to err on the side of caution, my dear fellow."

"I suppose I should do something to alter my appearance also?"

"I don't think it necessary, unless you have some overwhelming desire for greasepaint or a false beard or such," he shot back at me with an impertinent grin. "You are the epitome of the typical average Englishman, Doctor, and as such could pass anywhere unnoticed and unremembered."

"Thank you, I think," I replied dryly, glancing at the clock. Barely after seven. Below us I could hear the faint sounds of someone stirring; Mrs. Hudson was up and about her daily routine.

"I'm going to go ask Mrs. Hudson for some coffee, Holmes," I called through the hall door as I passed it on my way down the stairs.

"Make it strong!" was the only response I received as I plodded down the steps to speak to our landlady.

I was rather glad that he had dropped the subject of the wound with alacrity when Ives had offered the opportunity to stop the conversation from its bent in that direction, as the ensuing discussion would have been neither comfortable nor beneficial to either of us. Holmes had apparently shaken off the first shock of earlier, though I could tell from the hardness of his eyes which only softened when he glanced at me that he was by no means any less affected by the events than I.

I arranged for a pot of strong coffee to be sent up to the sitting-room post-haste, and was about to mount the steps when there was a rapid knocking upon the door. I moved to open it, but before I could a shout halted my movements from upstairs.

"Watson, stop!"

I glanced up in some puzzlement as Holmes came flying down the stairs, his hair askew and his collar half-buttoned, a look of what in another man might be termed franticness upon his pale face. Then I suddenly realised why he was behaving in such a manner.

"Holmes, I seriously doubt that Brownley is going to try his trade again in the same night, in the daylight, and besides I haven't even been warned yet!" I kept my tone reassuringly light as I was actually rather pleased at his concern, for it was obvious by his overreaction that he was indeed worried.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Did I not just say to err on the side of caution?" he asked in annoyance, whether at my pointing out his overreaction or at his unusual display I did not know.

He warily opened the door, standing well behind it and out of any firing range, and then I saw him sigh wearily.

"Somethin' th' matter, Mr. 'Olmes?" I heard a familiar Cockney voice, and only refrained from laughing at Holmes's chagrin with a supreme effort. Of course Alfie knocked instead of ringing – the lad was rather short for his age and no doubt could not reach the bell.

"No, Alfie, what the devil do you want?" my friend growled.

"Yew didn' pay me for yes'rday," the lad retorted in the voice of one who is deeply aggrieved.

Holmes's scowl deepened and he fished in his pocket for a coin, dropping it into the lad's grubby hand with a slight grimace.

"Wan' me ta tail the other Doctor chap ag'in today, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"No, Alfie, I've nothing for you today."

The lad glanced at me with a mischievous grin. "Good. Oi make more money pickin' pockets, anyhow. G'mornin', gents."

I laughed as the child skipped off merrily down the street, partly at the boy's bouncing a pebble off a bobby's helmet as he ran and partly at Holmes's irritation with the lad's slur on the detective's scale of pay.

He was halfway up the steps again when I realised just what the urchin had said.

"Holmes, have you been having Ives tailed by an Irregular as well?" I called as I followed him up the steps.

"Yes!" he shouted curtly, returning to his room.

"Why? He hasn't been harassed or threatened yet." I stood in the door and watched as he combed his hair to the side instead of back and applied a very thin dark mustache to his upper lip.

These alone would not be enough to prevent his being recognised from anyone who knew him well, but this Brownley obviously was unfamiliar with the two of us and this, with my friend's natural ability to melt inconspicuously into a crowd when he so chose, would be sufficient in this instance.

Holmes glanced at me in the mirror briefly before dropping his eyes again to what he was doing, and I could not exactly place the look that had flitted across his features before he schooled them to placidness once more.

"You obviously know this man well, Watson," he began somewhat cautiously, "but I know nothing whatever about him, and he is very well-informed about the affair…_too_ well-informed, I would think were it not for the fact that he is your friend."

Did I detect a hint of malice in that last statement?

"Merely a precaution, Watson, as I know nothing about the man and he was in this business far deeper than any other before Chamberlain's death was brought to my attention."

"You suspect him of some complicity in the matter?" I demanded, feeling my dormant irritation with the detective flare suddenly at the very idea.

"I did not say that, my dear fellow," he placated diplomatically, "and I should think that you would be glad to have a shadow keeping an eye on your friend's safety."

I nearly smiled at his petulant emphasis on the last few words. Really, Holmes was taking this new-found jealousy far too far. I could tolerate it – or at least overlook it – when it did not hamper the investigation. The instant it became intrusive, however . . .

I glanced behind me and decided to call a truce, for now at least. "The coffee's ready; want me to bring you some?"

_**Holmes**_

"Why do I need to do the talking?"

"Because," I explained patiently, "you are yourself a medical army man and as such know this system far better than I."

"You're not going to pull another of those stunts of yours where you leave me floundering in my limited thespian skills whilst you go skulking around looking for heaven only knows what, are you?" he asked in some dismay.

I could not help but laugh. "I cannot imagine this office having too many employees, Watson, that are in menial labour positions. I hope to see this man while we are there; if not, I'm sure you will think of something to form a suitable distraction for me."

I heard an indignant spluttering noise from behind me as I pushed the door of the pension office open and entered, but as soon as it had shut behind us my friend was all business, turning his attentions on the pert brunette secretary seated at the desk across the room. I refrained from rolling my eyes as the young woman flashed him a too-warm smile and began to look through a ledger instantly in response to his introduction of himself as a friend of the injured man and his inquiry about Dr. Robinson's 'missing' pension cheque.

I peered round an open doorway at the back of the outer room to see a few other offices leading off the main corridor but only two other workers, and both of those were yawning and pecking away at typewriters, their profiles to me. I could see no signs of anyone who could be Brownley…and I could not go poking about for that would immediately be cause for suspicion were our quarry to see me. Not to mention that explaining myself if caught would be rather difficult to do.

My friend was now quite capably engaged in obtaining the woman's sympathy about Robinson's injury of the night before, explaining very passionately how badly the man needed the cheque, etc., etc., and generally keeping the young lady completely occupied and oblivious to all else.

As I cast about for a plan, my eyes fell upon the second desk in that front room, the unoccupied one adjacent to the young woman's. A brimming cup of coffee sat temptingly on its edge, and I grinned. As Watson started in on a reminiscence of his army days to the fascinated woman, I crept forward and unobtrusively dumped the mug off the desktop, calling a warning as the brown liquid flooded over the side of the desk onto the floor in a milky splash.

"I am so terribly sorry," I apologised profusely, "I was just looking for a pen and I'm afraid I was rather clumsy, miss."

"You really must be more careful, Mr. Murray," Watson said severely. He then turned an apologetically winsome glance back to the woman. "I am dreadfully sorry, please allow me –"

"No, no, Doctor," the lady said amiably enough, "Mr. Brown will be more than happy to clean the mess up, just excuse me for a moment and I shall fetch him."

After her sensibly-high heels had tripped lightly round the corner, Watson grinned at me. "Nicely done, Holmes," he whispered. "Mr. Brown, of course, is Mr. Brownley?"

"A fairly safe assumption, I believe. I say, why'd you call me Mr. Murray?" I asked curiously.

"Well, you said we weren't supposed to be here under our real names and you also conveniently neglected to tell me exactly which aliases we were to use. That was the first one that sprang to mind," he said quietly with a small shrug.

"What name did you use with her?" It would not do for me to use a differing name from the one he had said, naturally.

"Edward Foley. The orderly who assisted Ives at Peshawar," he replied, a distant look coming into his eyes as they darkened with some remembrance of a past life, one I was becoming distinctly aware that I shared no part in.

I was more than glad to see the secretary coming back, for then the ghosts disappeared from his vision as soon as they had appeared and he returned to his bland attention to the secretary. The woman walked back over to us with a cheery smile.

I endeavoured to apologise again, but the lady waved me off graciously. "Quite all right, it will be cleaned up momentarily. Now, Dr. Foley, about this cheque. Our records show that it was indeed sent on schedule; perhaps the problem is with the post?"

As Watson began to discuss the matter with the woman, I took a seat in one of the chairs by the door and unfolded a nearby newspaper, surreptitiously watching the entry to the back of the outer office. I was not disappointed.

Not two minutes later the man we had been seeking appeared in the doorway, armed with a mop and bucket instead of a Jezail rifle this time: Alexander Brownley.


	17. Where a Man Feels Pain

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

_Where a man feels pain he lays his hand. - Dutch Proverb_

_**Holmes**_

Watson paused in his explanation to the secretary. His head had turned sharply as Brownley walked past. Immediately I snapped my newspaper and rustled it as noisily as I could – the only warning I could offer. If Watson did not remember himself he could throw the entire game. Fortunately, he understood and turned his attention back to the secretary with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. Yes, we checked with the post office first," he continued stoutly.

I kept my face pointed towards the newspaper, actually drawing it closer to me while I watched Brownley. Observations flitted through my mind. Between the ages of thirty-five and forty, closer to thirty-five. Just over five and a half feet. Slightly built and wiry. Erect, "head tied back to a board" posture found in well-trained soldiers, though it was unusual to see discharged soldiers maintain it with such diligence. Medium brown hair cut quite short, fair complexion, grey eyes. Clothes of medium quality and well-worn. Boots surprisingly heavy with a gratifying amount of grayish silt adhering to the left toe. I started formulating a plan to get a sample of that silt even as I continued my observations.

Hands roughened from manual labor; I could not tell at this distance the placement and nature of his calluses. As he rolled up his cuffs I saw ropes of twisted scar tissue about his wrists, as though he had been tightly bound for so long that the ropes had chafed him into a blood-letting. There was also a thin white line of a scar that began in front of his right ear and disappeared underneath his collar. I was not certain if he had been tortured but he had certainly been held captive. The case looked stronger and stronger against the janitor but I had yet to see any evidence of a spinal injury.

Then he bent down to mop up the spilled coffee. He bent at the waist, keeping his neck straight and stiff. I was no doctor but even I knew a neck abnormality when I saw one. He was unable to bend it forward more than a few degrees. To compensate, his eyes darted this way and that with unnerving quickness. His face was schooled in a carefully blank expression as he went about his work. Only when he stood fully upright again did he rub at the back of his neck briefly, as though it were pained.

Neither Watson nor the secretary acknowledged Brownley when he turned to leave. Of course, Watson had his unspoken orders not to but I wondered at the secretary's disregard. It could be an indicator of Brownely's status in the pension office.

For just a second an ugly look of rage appeared on the man's face before it vanished into that wooden countenance. That was my cue. I sprang up from my seat, cast the newspaper aside, and hurried up to him. Brownley turned in surprise and my right foot "clumsily" knocked into his left.

"I do beg your pardon," I said in as flustered a manner I could summon. "I wished to apologize for spilling the coffee. I'm terribly accident prone, as you can see, and I fear it was my fault that you were pulled from your duties to attend to my mess."

Watson turned around at my words – the secretary once again checking the ledger – and I made small flicking motion with my hand towards him. Now was not the time for his curiosity; we would discuss everything later. He turned back.

Brownley looked faintly nonplussed at the jumble of words I thrust at him. " 's'all right, sir," he finally growled. "Attending messes is part of my duties." He made an odd sort of bobbing motion with his head and slunk off into the direction from whence he came. Immediately I pulled out my handkerchief, fumbled with it, dropped it on the floor directly over the silt I had dislodged from Brownley's boot, and caught up both cloth and dirt.

With my prize safely deposited in my pocket, I turned my attention back to Watson and the secretary. She had her hands spread in a gesture of appealing helplessness. "I am very sorry, Doctor, but our records do show that the cheque for Dr. Robinson was sent with the others three days ago. I'll certainly ask our clerks to look around to see if it has been misplaced. In the meantime –"

"We will check with the post office again," Watson finished with a believable amount of resignation. "Thank you for your time, Miss Porter."

"I wish you luck!" she called after us.

_**Watson**_

"Well?" I demanded as soon as we were outside.

"Patience, my dear Watson," Holmes remonstrated, though from his cheery mood it was clear he had discovered something. "Let us hail a cab before I disclose my finds."

To my surprise Holmes gave the cabman Dr. Robinson's address. Nevertheless, I waited until after we were settled in to repeat my question.

"I have no doubt the janiter Brown is our man," began Holmes. "He matches the description of the supposedly deceased Brownley, he holds his neck stiffly, he has signs of old torture, and I was able to get a sample of the dirt on his boot that I believe will match the silt across from the doctor's residence. Ergo, our unexpected detour."

I nodded but there was yet another issue still preying on my mind. "Holmes, was there a reason you did not want me to look at Brownley?"

He looked surprised. "Naturally. 'Dr. Foley' was there to enquire after a friend's missing cheque. It would have been odd for him to take undue notice of the cleaning staff. Afterwards, I didn't want you to risk an interruption when I was speaking with him."

"Are those the only reasons?" I asked slowly. I could not help but wonder if it was yet another example of unwarranted and misguided "protection." Holmes had promised he would not keep anything regarding this case from me any longer. I meant to hold him to that.

"Yes, of course," he replied, looking less puzzled. "There was no way he would have recognized you or realized you had given an alias. And I seriously doubt you would have accosted him right then and there had you made eye contact with him."

I had to agree with a laugh.

"Besides," Holmes continued with a most impish twinkle in his eyes, "we could not have Miss Porter feeling neglected."

I was not about to deign to reply to that – I daresay my face gave enough of a retort – and Holmes steered the conversation into new channels. He brought up the significance of the hand in Moorish art, if memory serves, and that topic took us to Dr. Robinson's. It was but a moment before Holmes had collected his sample and we were on our way back to Baker Street.

"You know, Watson," said he as we pulled up, "we have a few hours until we are to meet your colleague. Unless you have a pressing desire to watch me analyze these samples you might as well get some rest."

I had unsuccessfully stifled a yawn just prior to his words and his suggestion sounded most appealing. Had I been less tired I would have questioned his use of the phrase "your colleague" in reference to Ives but as it was, I merely added it to a growing mental list of things to discuss with Holmes after the conclusion of the case.

Not surprisingly, there were more nightmares. I cannot recollect any single scene or instance, only a jumbled confusion of images and feelings: twisted, bloody bodies on a field of sand; a dark, rolling fog through which I could see the faint outline of a threatening figure in black wielding some sort of stick; a crushing sense of fear from an unknown enemy; a desperate urge to flee.

I jerked upright when Holmes shook my shoulder. He looked startled but not concerned; my sleep may have been disturbing but apparently it had been silent.

"Sorry to wake you, Watson, but we'll have to leave now if we are to be punctual," he explained. I nodded and rose, glad to clear my thoughts.

It was not until we were already clattering down the road that I remembered. "What of your experiment? Did the samples match?"

Holmes merely smiled. "You know I dislike repeating myself. Let us wait until we have joined Dr. Ives before I reveal the results."


	18. What It Means to be a Veteran

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

_That's what it means to be a veteran -- to be scared all the time. - Gil Doud_

_**Watson**_

There is little to be gained from being annoyed with Holmes, especially when it is one of his inherent traits that causes the annoyance. The artist and performer in him cannot resist the allure of an audience. Moreover, his secretive nature shies from revealing too much before the conclusion of a case, even to his own confederates. I was familiar with both characteristics. Familiarity did not make it any easier to tolerate his complacent demeanor as we joined Dr. Ives at the table at Simpson's.

"Any luck?" was the greeting that met us as soon as we had taken our seats.

"Yes, it was a profitable morning," Holmes replied easily as he lifted the menu. "I see rabbit is the special today."

"We found him," I said quickly, before Ives could explode with impatience. Holmes lowered the menu to look reproachfully at me. I merely raised my eyebrows. Given the choice between pandering to his theatrical tendencies and exchanging our respective intelligences, I opted for the latter.

Holmes acquiesced with sigh. "There is indeed adequate evidence proving Mr. Brown the pension office janitor is really Alexander Brownley."

"Then all that remains is to link him to the crime scenes," Ives said with satisfaction.

"We have already begun to do so," Holmes replied, coming perilously close to smugness.

"How?"

The detective took sip of water. "There was a greyish silt on the toe of his left boot. I contrived to get a sampling of it and have compared it to the grey silt across from Dr. Robinson's house where we found the sniper's footprint."

"Did they match?"

Holmes took an unnecessarily long drink of water. Only long experience kept me from shouting but Ives nearly quivered from impatience. Finally he put down his glass. "Yes. They did."

"Then we have him!" Ives exclaimed.

"I fear not."

"Why on earth not?" I demanded, beating the older doctor to the question.

"Because the silt is not unique to one location," admitted Holmes. "Baker Street mud is individual, mainly due to its high volume of red clay. The type of silt from Dr. Robinson's neighborhood and the silt from Brownley's shoe can be found all around London. I shall not bore you with the particulars but suffice to say, it will not be enough to convince a British jury, let alone enough to arrest him."

"And proving that Mr. Brown is Alexander Brownley will do nothing to tie him to the murder and attacks," Ives finished. "What if we could obtain a sample of his handwriting?"

"I have thought of that. The notes, you recall, were written in block letters, even when his fury came through. Even in his irrational moments he took pains to conceal his normal penmanship."

"And breaking into his house is illegal and therefore inadmissible in a court of law," I added, looking sideways at my friend. I could not put it past him to seriously consider that course of action.

Holmes merely smiled. "Of course. That is why the only solution I can see to our conundrum is to catch him in the act."

"You mean to wait until he tries to kill someone else?" exclaimed Ives, the hand holding his own water glass suspended in midair. He looked as horrified as I felt.

"In point of fact, I mean to catch him in the act of delivering one of his charming little epistles," retorted Holmes with a heavy amount of asperity. "I know Watson has described me as cold-blooded and machine-like but I like to think I have _some_ limits."

Ives raised his eyebrows and seemed to be one the verge of one of his characteristic, sarcastic comments. It might be beneficial to simply let them have at each other, if only to clear the air, but I was loath to see them do it in a public forum. I cleared my throat. "If I understand what you are proposing, it will mean following Brownley constantly."

"It will mean some nightly vigils, yes," the detective conceded. "I think it is safe to say he poses no risk during the day." To my relief, he seemed to have regained some good humor.

Ives, too, had calmed down. "Will we be standing guard singly or in pairs?"

"That depends on the answer you have to my question."

"Which is?"

"How many notes did Dr. Robinson receive prior to his wounding, and how quickly did they arrive?"

Ives settled back in his chair. "Two notes. The first came before Malkin sent on my message about being wary, around May 25th or so. The second came the day before Douglas Chamberlain was murdered."

Only five days between the second message and the shooting! Though I could scarcely believe less than a week had gone by since I first learned the truth of the case. It seemed an age.

Holmes jotted the information down on his cuff. "Brownley has sped up his agenda, I fear. I will not risk employing the Irregulars now. The danger is too great and most of them are too young to testify in court. As for how we shall arrange guard duty, pairs will be the safest. One man to subdue him, the other to fetch the police. It is a trifle risky but any more on his tail and Brownley would certainly be aware of it."

Privately I agreed that it was a risky plan but the only alternative I could conceive was even riskier and I did not yet dare to voice it in Holmes's presence. For one, my friend would dismiss it out of hand. For another, I myself was reluctant to participate in such an operation. Nevertheless, I could not in good conscience ask another to do that which I hesitated to do. I decided I had to seek a second opinion on the matter.

When the time came for us to part ways I asked Holmes to go on without me, as I wished to accompany Ives on a visit to Dr. Robinson. I have never been good at deception, especially around Sherlock Holmes, but I played shamelessly on his previous distress at seeing the nature of the young doctor's wound.

"Watson, you look pensive," Ives observed when I did not rise from the table.

"I don't like the idea of waiting for Brownley to strike again," I confessed.

"Nor do I, but what alternative do we have?"

I raised my eyebrows and looked at him significantly. I could tell, by the knowing look he gave me in return, that Ives had considered the same plan. "Holmes won't like it, you know," he warned.

I sighed. "Yes, I know. That is why I think we shall have to employ an official ally in our endeavor to bring him round. Inspector Lestrade wants to bring this case to a close almost as badly as we."

"Then all that remains is to hash out which one of us it is to be."

* * *

I have rarely seen Holmes genuinely puzzled but he certainly looked it when he walked into Lestrade's office a scant forty-five minutes later and saw not only the inspector but Dr. Ives and myself waiting for him. Of course, his confusion lasted no more than a few seconds.

"It is to be a conclave, then?" he queried, taking the proffered chair by the door.

"Of sorts," Lestrade agreed nervously. He had agreed to the unpleasant task of explaining though he appeared to be having second thoughts. Nevertheless, he carried on. "The doctors here have shared your plan to capture Brownley. I've no real exception to it other than to point out it would be safer and more efficient to have some men from the Yard close at hand."

"I agree but as I've already said, we cannot have an entourage blundering all around London after him," replied Holmes impatiently.

"And I agree with you there," the inspector said hastily. "But suppose you knew where Brownley was going to strike next, and had a fairly good idea when."

Holmes went still. "You are proposing to set a trap for him, using a former army doctor as bait." He did not wait for Lestrade to confirm this but looked hard at Ives and me. "And who is to be the unlucky fellow?"

It was now or never. I steeled my resolve. "I am."

"Absolutely not." His posture grew as stiff as his tone.

I had suspected as much. "I am the logical choice, after all. I know about the case and its dangers, I have had experience with snipers and with London criminals, and I am very nearly a public figure already."

"I will not have putting you putting your life in unnecessary danger!" Holmes rose with such force that his chair clattered on the floor before righting itself. I knew his anger was born of concern but I found I had finally had enough of such high-handed treatment, and not only from him.

"And I will not have an innocent doctor put in unnecessary danger in my stead! It's hardly your choice to make, Holmes. I could just as easily march down to the pension office and personally hand the man a copy of _A Study in Scarlet_ with the first four paragraphs underlined."

Holmes went deathly white. "That would be the most singularly foolish thing you could possibly do," he snarled.

"Oh, I quite agree," I said coldly. "That is why we are asking you to help us formulate a plan, since you have proven your skill in setting up such captures."

Somehow he managed to go a shade paler than before at my mention of the Camden House affair just two years ago. Before our dialogue could turn uglier, however, Lestrade interrupted with a faint cough.

"Gentlemen," he began and both Holmes and I withdrew slightly. The look he gave me told me this discussion was far from over. I rather welcomed it.

"I fear it is three against one, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade went on. "We do intend to proceed with or without your help."

"What you mean," Holmes muttered through clenched teeth, "is that Watson will take matters into his own hands regardless of my opinion." He mastered himself with an obvious effort. "Very well. If you are so bound and determined to do this, at least give me twenty-four hours to formulate a plan that will not end in tragedy. I trust this is an amenable compromise?"

With a most relieved air, Lestrade agreed that it was. Without waiting for anyone else to speak, Holmes gave his a sharp nod without sparing a glance in my direction, and left the office. There was a noticeable silence from the floor as he left. With a sinking mortification I realized we had been audible to the rest of the officers.

Ives gave me a small smirk as I felt my cheeks grow warm. "That sounded familiar," he murmured.

I started to stammer an apology that the little inspector waved away before it could progress. "It was worth it, if only to see someone get the better of Sherlock Holmes in an argument," he grinned.

At least someone found the situation amusing.

* * *

I paused with my hand on the doorknob to the sitting room. I could smell his pipesmoke already. Given the time he had had between leaving Scotland Yard and now, Holmes must have consumed an incredible amount of tobacco. With a sigh, I turned the knob.

The atmosphere of the room was thick but I forebore any comment. Holmes leaned back in his chair with his legs propped up on the ottoman and his pipe in his mouth. He did not stir as I entered. Slowly I shed my hat and coat.

"Holmes, I – "

"You may be gratified to learn I have nearly completed plotting out a course of action that I believe will meet with your approval," he interrupted coolly.

"I'm glad," I said sincerely. Cautiously I settled into my chair. "I was not serious about giving Brownley a copy of _A Study in Scarlet_, you know."

The only motion from him was the smoke that curled about him. We sat in oppressive silence for a few minutes. Finally Holmes slammed his pipe onto the side table and turned to face me directly. "What on earth has possessed you?" he demanded. "I know your penchant for running your head into danger but to deliberately put yourself into harm's way goes beyond the pale!"

I blinked in surprise. I had expected anger but not the distress that he could not quite disguise. Even had I been so inclined, I could not dissemble a second time.

"You ask what has possessed me. It is more apt a phrase than you know. The answer is fear."

His brow creased and I rushed through the rest of my explanation. "During the war fear was a constant companion for all of us. We learned to live with it or else it would destroy us. Afterwards . . . we had to learn to live in peace and that was almost more difficult. It is not easy to trust that one is safe after living in mortal peril for months on end. Once was enough. I will not do it again, not here and certainly not now."

"You didn't sound frightened in Lestrade's office," Holmes said quietly. "More angry, I should say."

"It is a trick we learned in combat. Become angry enough and the fear recedes. It was not truly you I was angry with, Holmes," I added with all the earnestness I could muster. "I apologize if I led you to believe I was. It is Brownley. It is the knowledge that he is still out there and that he is capable of raising memories I thought were long buried. And I am angry with myself for allowing him the power to frighten me."

I drew a deep breath. "But I cannot live in a constant state of rage either. That has its own repercussions that I prefer to avoid. This has to end, Holmes, and I wish be a part of it rather than a spectator. I would much rather lure Brownley to me than to remain in continuous uncertainty."

The clock quietly ticked away the seconds. It was the only sound in the room.

"I owe you an apology as well, Watson" said Holmes at last. "I hadn't realized . . . That is to say, you have clarified some matters for me and I thank you. This trap you have devised _is_ the most logical solution. We shall make it work. In the meantime . . . stay angry, Watson. It will serve you far better than fear. Pick a fight with me if you must; I shall understand now. But stay angry."


	19. All That Is Within

_Once the battle is started, all that is within and without you will come to your assistance. – Robert Collier_

_**Watson**_

"First off, we certainly cannot perform the thing in Baker Street."

"Whyever not?" I most certainly did not relish this entire plot, but even more so it being carried out in totally unfamiliar surroundings, giving me a serious disadvantage against our foe.

"For the very good reason that it is simply too dangerous," Holmes stated flatly.

I opened my mouth to protest what I viewed as another instance of overreaction but he clarified momentarily. "For one thing, that plane tree in the back yard is far too conveniently placed for cover; the danger will be great enough without handing a place of concealment to Brownley on a silver platter."

"But Camden House still stands empty there across the street," I pointed out sensibly, "and no one but the two of us and a smattering of police officials know that such a trap has been before baited there; Brownley certainly would not be wary of using the same trick."

"But we have neither the materials nor the time to manufacture a bust of you, my dear fellow," Holmes said.

"That isn't completely necessary –"

"Allow me to decide what is necessary and what is not, Watson!" he almost snapped, and had I not perceived the slight tremour in his hand as he relit his pipe I should have taken offense at his vehemence.

"Besides," he went on more calmly after drawing slowly for a minute, "we cannot put Mrs. Hudson in danger either. It is simply too risky for all parties concerned, Watson – it will not do."

"What then?" I sighed, thoroughly tired of his infernal guessing games.

Holmes puffed slowly at his pipe, drawing up his long legs into his armchair and frowning darkly for a moment in moody silence. "I do not want you in completely unfamiliar surroundings either, Watson, as that is a serious disadvantage and we need every help we may obtain in this matter."

I breathed a noiseless sigh of relief. "I concur entirely. I should much prefer to know my way about the place at least."

"We cannot use any of the sites Brownley has already targeted, and Ives's rooms do not present an apposite location for surveillance."

I glanced up, a sudden idea occurring to me. "Suppose we use my old consulting-room in Kensington?"

Holmes flashed me a quick twitching smile. "Capital, Watson. I was about to suggest the exact scene, as we both know that area and that house rather well. If it is agreeable to you, then, I shall contact Verner first thing tomorrow and ask him to take his business elsewhere for a few days, leaving you to resume his duties to all outward appearances. I shall leave contacting Lestrade and Dr. Ives to you. We shall catch Brownley in the act of placing the first warning upon your old door-step."

I raised my eyebrows at the casual mention of the young fellow who had bought my practice…hearing Holmes refer to any other human being other than the odd Yarder without a prefix was a fact to be noted. Yet another thing to discuss with the man when the tension between us had done more than just dissipate and lurk round the corner.

_**Holmes**_

"Are you certain he will take the bait?"

Watson looked as nervous as I felt, which was to say _extremely_. Getting a grand total of less than four hours' sleep, judging from the noises and pacing I'd heard from upstairs last night, could not have helped his nerves any.

"Of course he will," I replied in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. "You have only to draw his attention by some less-than-gentlemanly remark or conduct, drop that card containing your old address and Foley's name, and leave. And," I added sternly, "no more than that, is that understood?"

Had his nerves not been keyed up to the highest tension, I should probably have been on the receiving end of his most formidable scowl for my admonition. As it was, he merely nodded and ensured the few forged business cards I had had printed late last night were stowed securely in his card-case.

I refrained from telling him to relax and to act naturally – not only would the order have been insulting to his intelligence but also completely useless, as we were both under an equal strain about the coming confrontation and, though I admitted it with far less grace than he had last night, we were both afraid.

But he entered the pension office in front of me without a backward glance. I remained lounging by the door as he walked over to the secretary once again, refraining from rolling my eyes as the woman's face blossomed into a wide smile which my friend returned. He then began to discuss Robinson's missing pension cheque.

"And so I wished to come by on behalf of Dr. Robinson, Miss Porter, to tell you that you were quite correct; the problem was in the post, not your office," Watson said with his most winsome smile. "The cheque was merely lost in the mail room. I do apologise for troubling you with the matter."

"Not at all, Dr. Foley," the woman replied. "Such things will happen."

"Yes, indeed."

"The poor man is doing as well as to be expected, I trust?"

As Watson affirmed the woman's question I continued to watch the rooms; Brownley was nowhere to be seen. And much as I hated to stage yet another 'accident' (for I did not want to draw such attention to my character as to seem overly obvious about the affair), I knew that we somehow had to draw out the man from wherever he was to continue this plan.

But as if in answer to my unspoken plea, our quarry himself suddenly appeared in the doorway with two empty wastepaper baskets. Excellent; this would save me the trouble of upsetting an inkwell.

Watson's head had only turned slightly when the man had entered, but it was enough to view the situation's new development. He immediately withdrew his small pocket notebook and began scribbling in it, excusing himself momentarily to the curious secretary and explaining that he had only just remembered an appointment he had later and that he was giving himself a reminder.

He halted with a scowl and scribbled out the words before ripping the sheet from the book and tossing it in a wad to the floor. I would have smiled at his quick and flawless adjusting of our original plan had I not been in the character of a bored companion waiting for his friend to finish business.

But my amusement faded when I saw Brownley send such a glare of cold rage at my friend's unsuspecting back that I instinctively took a step closer to him, catching my reaction just in time and relapsing back into a lounge against the wall, my hands clenched.

The custodian bent stiffly to retrieve the paper and addressed Watson.

"Believe you dropped this, sir," said he, and though the tone was polite enough I watched him carefully without appearing to be doing ought else but waiting for the man at the desk.

Watson looked irritably up from his notebook, and the secretary sent Brownley a rather annoyed glance…again I noticed the utter disregard for the man that this office held.

"So I did," he replied boredly, going back to his appointment-book. "Just toss it in the dustbin, there's a good fellow?"

Brownley's head inclined slightly in acquiescence, but after stiffly depositing the wadded paper I saw that cold rage flash through his steeled features before fading back to that blank nothingness…but his eyes lingered for far longer than I liked upon the figure of my friend as he finished his scribbling and placed the book back in his pocket.

I was very pleased that Watson had managed to keep whatever personal feelings he was undergoing at bay during this exchange; only boredom and condescending disdain had filtered through his tone and his appearance, not fear or any other emotion – no small feat for him, all things considered.

After one last sweeping look at my friend, Brownley went back to his work of putting the wastepaper baskets into place and Watson turned to Miss Porter with an apology for his absent-mindedness. In the ensuing pleasantries, 'Dr. Foley' managed to drop his name again quite audibly to the girl again and a business card to the floor, where it remained unnoticed by the occupants of the room…at least to all appearances.

I believe both of us were intensely relieved when the ordeal was over with and we found ourselves walking down the street at last. Though the whole thing had not taken a quarter of an hour, it had seemed absolutely interminable.

Watson had said not a word until we were well away from the place; then he glanced at me with a small sigh. I removed my cigarette case from my pocket and offered him one, which he accepted gratefully and lit slowly before speaking.

"Was his reaction what you expected?"

"Quite," I replied gravely, replacing the case in my pocket and glancing at my watch. "The bait has been carefully placed there; now let us concentrate on constructing the trap to accompany it."


	20. Anticipation Of It

_There is no terror in a bang, only in the anticipation of it -- Alfred Hitchcock_

_**Watson**_

We met with Lestrade and Ives that evening around seven. It felt very odd indeed to be back at my old Kensington offices and odder still to see it arranged and furnished in so unfamiliar a fashion. I recognized a few pieces of furniture that I had sold with the practice; among a stranger's belongings they looked as incongruous as a tiger strolling down Piccadilly.

"It is a nice little practice," Ives said approvingly as he glanced about him. "How did you convince Dr. Verner to abandon it for a few days?"

Holmes shrugged. "It was not terribly difficult. He knew me, of course, and when I had briefly explained what it was we hoped to accomplish he was happy to oblige. Anyway, the man has not had a holiday in nearly two years."

"He knows you?" I asked, my curiosity aroused. "How?"

"Well, he knew _of_ me – I assume because of your writings."

To know a man and to know of a man are two very different things. I repressed a sigh and wondered if I shouldn't pursue the matter now rather than archive it for future discussions. Already that mental list was becoming daunting in its length. Before I could act, however, Lestrade asked where he and his men would be waiting. He had already disclosed that there were to be two constables and himself standing guard.

"Of course, Inspector," said Holmes, perhaps too quickly for my liking. "This way."

We left the house and stood on the low front steps. Little had changed on the façade, save for the name on the shingle and a few more signs of wear on the bricks and railing. Holmes rested his hands on the ironwork and looked into the foliage below. "Fortunately Verner has not seen fit to remove the rhododendrons put in by your predecessor, Watson. Here is where I shall be, Lestrade, along with whichever official representative of the law you choose to accompany me. And I include you among those representatives. Of the last two men, one shall be watching from the neighbor's yard on the right and the other shall be positioned in the neighbor's yard to the left. The doctors will be stationed within the house. You two might even choose to sleep through the entire thing if you so wished," Holmes added dryly.

"Oh, hardly," I muttered, though without the rancor I would have used had I thought Holmes to be serious.

"We begin our vigil at dusk," my friend continued as though I hadn't spoken. "I strongly suggest getting some rest and nourishment before then. We may have a long night ahead of us."

* * *

Dr. Verner's staff had been informed of the proceedings and given the strictest orders not to go near any door or window after nightfall, for safety's sake. At sunset Holmes went out to meet the police, leaving Ives and myself in the sitting room which also doubled as the young doctor's waiting room.

The hours crawled by with painful slowness. We had brought along reading material but I for one found it impossible to concentrate on even a light adventure novel, let alone some new medical treatise. My revolver -- and Ives's -- rested close at hand. The windows were cracked open, the blinds pulled, and only a few candles remained lit.

Around eleven we decided to make it appear as though the entire household had retired and we put out the candles. A thin, murky light from the street-lamps filtered in. I found it more oppressive and gloomy than utter blackness would have been. Then, at least, there would not have been shadows and sepia-grays that could so easily mask an enemy.

I heard Ives shift in his chair uneasily. "I don't suppose experience makes these waiting games any easier," he whispered.

"No," I agreed, "although I find it is more tolerable when I know what it is that I am waiting for."

"Anticipation is far more terrible than reality," Ives murmured. "Of course, reality is not always a pleasant thing either. You need not have volunteered to do this, you know. I said I was willing."

"It was my idea."

"It was both our idea; you happened to express it first."

I really did not feel up to revisiting the argument we had engaged in at the restaurant, and then again in Lestrade's office before Holmes's arrival. I was saved from responding by a sudden, insistent pounding on the front door.

"So soon?" I gasped. We had been certain Brownley would deliver one of his notes first. If he had been captured we surely would have heard evidence of a scuffle, or a police whistle at the very least.

"That doesn't sound like someone throwing objects at the door," Ives said. His brows had lowered. "That sounds like someone's fist. I would have thought Mr. Holmes or a policeman would simply enter, not wait for one of us to answer."

"Well, let us find out who it is," I said with more enthusiasm than I felt. Ives looked alarmed and I hastened to add, "Observing all due caution, of course."

"Of course."

We both crept to the door. I undid the lock and my hand stole around the knob. I turned it gently, slowly. Finally, I flung it open and we both ducked back behind the in-swinging door.

"Dr. Verner?" an uncertain male voice asked over the muffled but unmistakable cries of a baby.

Hastily I appeared. There was a young, anxious-looking man on the step with an equally drawn-looking young woman whom I took to be his wife trying to soothe an unhappy infant. All wore traveling clothes. For all our planning for various scenarios, we had overlooked the fact that this was still an active practice. "Dr. Verner has been called away on family business for a few days but I am looking after his practice until he returns."

"But you are a doctor yourself, sir?" the young man cried desperately.

Despite the chance of danger I could not turn them away. There was a child in need of medical attention; it would have taken one far more hardened than I to say no. Besides, there was danger for us all if they lingered on my doorstep. "Indeed," I said and held the door open wider for them. As they passed me I caught sight of Holmes peering out from amidst the flowering bushes. The light from within was enough to see his displeased expression. I shrugged helplessly in response.

"Give them your alias," he hissed just loud enough for me to barely hear the words before I closed the door and addressed my patient.

_**Holmes**_

Of all the ridiculous, ill-timed interruptions that have foiled my plans (very few of which my devoted biographer has ever considered writing up) I could not think of a more irritating instance than this one. Naturally, Watson being Watson, had not turned them away. I normally admire his never-failing kindness but crouching there amongst those confounded rhododendrons, I bitterly cursed it and whatever blasted turn of fate that had brought that young couple and their squalling child to Kensington at this hour.

From the other side of the stairs Lestrade rose from the bushes. "What now?" he whispered loudly.

I sighed. "We hold our positions." Perhaps it was still early enough yet that Brownley was not in the neighborhood. Or perhaps he had no intentions of appearing tonight. That is the risk we always take with such schemes.

_**Watson**_

I briefly introduced myself under the name Edward Foley (and noted Ives's subtle reaction to it.) Ives explained that he was merely a visitor, though a fellow doctor. He declined to assist, stating that he was more familiar with battle wound than babies, and ended by saying he hadn't realized it was so late.

"I'm capable of showing myself to the guest room, Edward," he said with a slight emphasis on the name. Then he added, "I can watch for myself." His eyes flitted to the window and I understood he meant to keep vigil upstairs in case Brownley did make an appearance tonight. I nodded and turned back to the patient.

"Anna was just turning feverish as we left Brighton but we didn't think it would become so serious so soon," the young man explained, twisting his hands in agitation as I examined his daughter. "We had taken her to see my wife's parents for the week."

"She was perfectly well until early evening," his wife put in, equally distraught. "Then she became more withdrawn and listless than her wont. We decided we would leave tonight rather than wait until morning as we had originally planned. Was that a mistake? Did it harm her?"

"Given that it is June, and a pleasant night, I shouldn't think it made one difference or another," I replied absently. "She's about five months old?"

"Yes," the woman answered, "She's started teething but she hasn't been bothered by it until now."

"It's not the teething that's causing her discomfort," I replied, having seen what the problem was. "It's an ear infection, although the drooling from teething may have aggravated the condition."

The young man blinked. "An ear infection? But she hasn't tugged at her ears or given any indication of that."

"Very few infants actual do," I replied. "But given the appearance of her eardrums I have no doubt that's what it is." Anna accepted my putting drops of silver nitrate in her ears with uncommonly good grace and I advised they take her to her doctor in the morning.

"By the by," I said as casually as I could, "why did you come to this establishment rather than seek out the one you usually attend?"

The young man sheepishly smiled. "We live in Enfield. One of the engineers at Charing Cross took pity on us and gave us this address. It was not even three miles away and he highly recommended Dr. Verner. We're new parents, I'm afraid, and inclined to overreact."

I smiled tolerantly. "I should say it is better to overreact than wait until a disease is advanced."

We exchanged the information necessary for financial restitution – it was no longer my practice and I would not cheat Dr. Verner out of the fee he would have received if he had been present. The couple thanked me again and I saw them out. I did not, however, see Holmes as they left. Nor did I see any indication that things were out of the ordinary. It seemed we would simply have to wait and see.

* * *

It was apparent, as dawn crept over the city, that Brownley was not going to appear. With leaden limbs I set about preparing enough coffee for six tired men, myself included. There was no point in waking the maid or the housekeeper at that ungodly hour. Ives silently joined me at Dr. Verner's table. Not long after that Holmes, Lestrade, and two officers I vaguely recognized stumbled in.

There was not much to be said and so we sat around in silence, nursing our steaming cups. The earliness of the hour and the failure of the hunt was not condusive to conversation. After a time we agreed to try again that night, at the same time, in the same location. I had a strong urge to apologize for Brownley's absence even though I knew I had no control over that.

As soon as their coffees were finished, Lestrade and his men took their leave. Shortly after that Ives departed as well. Holmes took up temporary residence in Dr. Verner's sitting room with his pipe (and an open window, at my suggestion) and I decided to get a few hours of sleep before patients began arriving.

The morning was not busy but even so, I nearly missed the noon post and what came with it.


	21. The Only Security

"_Uncertainty is the only certainty there is, and knowing how to live with insecurity is the only security.__" -- John Allen Paulos _

_**Holmes**_

I had consumed enough tobacco to last even me for quite a while by the time the morning post arrived. Though Watson might have chosen at the moment to believe otherwise, I did not make a regular habit of reading or investigating other people's correspondence; however, in light of Brownley's not showing the previous night I had already determined it would be expedient for me to monitor the incoming mail.

In consequence, I was not surprised but very much concerned by the arrival of an envelope, printed in the same rough block lettering that the other threats had shown, and addressed to Dr. Edward Foley.

He'd been there with us in the dark, and after having been thwarted by the extremely untimely arrival of that family, he had apparently shoved the missive into an envelope (hastily, and in some anger, judging from the creases in the paper, a small tear on one side, and the lopsidedly sealed flap) and had dropped it into the nearest postal box.

I did not relish informing my friend (and especially not Ives) of what I regarded as a colossal failure on my part – though I could never have stopped that family from showing I still felt entirely responsible for the night's poor outcome. I had all but promised Watson we would catch him in the act of planting the note, and we had not. Here was the threat to prove my inability.

Thankfully I had no further time to think upon my shortcoming, for my friend suddenly entered from the door leading to Verner's consulting room, showing out his last patient of the morning with a cheerful, if somewhat tired, smile.

Said smile vanished the instant the door had shut behind the sneezing, puffy-eyed young clerk, and Watson collapsed into the chair opposite me with a sigh.

I hesitated for a moment, but that was enough for him to see the plain white envelope in my hand. His worn face paled even further, and I nodded in answer to the unspoken question, handing the letter over to him.

He rubbed his temples for a moment before reaching behind him for a letter-opener and slitting the envelope in a neat line.

"I see you did leave it for me to open this time at least," he said with a thin attempt at humour that I really did not find at all funny considering the circumstances.

I watched surreptitiously as his eyes flitted over the single sheet of paper and its probably dreadful contents. His eyes widened briefly with a look of mingled disgust and what I dearly hoped was something other than fear, before he shook his head and handed the paper over to me.

"Appears that little escapade in the pension office did indeed get his attention," he muttered, rising and moving to the sideboard for a brandy.

Ordinarily that simple act would not alarm me – except that I knew he never drank before luncheon, especially only an hour before as it was now. The contents of the letter must truly be disturbing.

I frowned and turned the missive over in my hand carefully, but our quarry had either been careful enough or simply in too much of a hurry to leave any evidence worth noting on the paper or envelope.

What was scrawled upon the paper, however, was atrocious. Though without a knowledge of army slang, even I could fairly feel the hatred in the missive dripping from between the lines of crude print, and the language used was such that even I was appalled. His threats were growing more violent with each doctor that was harassed . . . which indicated that his volatile nature was also growing more violent, and possibly more unpredictable. That was definitely an alarming development.

I glanced up at last to see that Watson was staring at the wall over the sideboard . . . at nothing, apparently, save perhaps some elusive memories I still had no part in sharing.

The only emotion worse to my mind than guilt (which I was already feeling over the night's events, or lack thereof) is that of helplessness. I had not liked this matter from the moment I found out the conspiracy to set this trap against my will, and that aversion intensified by the moment.

I angrily shoved the envelope and its horrible contents into my pocket before rising from my seat and striding over to where my friend stood, still staring at absolutely nothing, and obviously disturbed. Just how disturbed, I did not realise until I laid a tentative hand on his shoulder and felt that he was shaking just as he had been that night after his first case-provoked nightmare.

I opened my mouth to speak, though what I was going to say heaven alone knew, but he beat me to it with a question that took me completely off guard with its abrupt subject change; obviously he did not wish to speak of Brownley or the threat at the moment.

"Tell me something, Holmes. When exactly were you going to inform me that this man, Verner, is some relation to you?"

How the devil had he found that out?

I scowled in dismay, for the subject of yet another of my deceptions (though a considerably less volatile one) was not one I wanted to broach at the moment. Still, I was rather too weary for prevarication and that would never have helped in this situation anyway. Truth was the better course, uncomfortable though it might be.

"To be quite honest, Watson, I never intended to," I replied.

"No, I suppose you didn't." He moved wearily from the sideboard to sit back in his chair, and after a moment of hesitation I did the same.

"Cousin?"

"Third cousin."

"Distant part of your French relatives, the Vernets."

"Did you deduce that fact, Watson, or is there a simpler explanation for your sudden flight of discernment into my family history?"

He grinned, at which sight I felt relief crawl through my tension and I relaxed slightly. It appeared he was more amused than offended by the fact, though that might change shortly.

"Apparently the art of throwing papers about to every part of the room – and putting them in the most outrageous hiding places – seems to be a familial tendency," he informed me. "I was familiarizing myself with Verner's instruments and supplies before the office opened this morning, and for some reason he keeps his family correspondence in the same drawer as his forceps."

I had to laugh at my cousin's eccentricities, though I had the sneaking suspicion that what I had just heard was Watson's gently devious method of insulting me…

"Of course, I did not open or look through the letters."

Subtle emphasis of the word "I." Now I had no doubt that I had been insulted.

"But I could not help but see the name 'Vernet' and a French postal stamp. From there it was not a very clever deduction," he finished calmly.

"Clever enough," I muttered, re-lighting my pipe a bit nervously.

When I glanced up, the smile had disappeared from his face, and I saw a sudden realisation sweep over him. I mentally braced myself; it seemed I had been doing more than my fair share of defending my good intentions of late.

"So, in other words, I've been living off your charity for the last two years?" he asked with more than a little bitterness. "Since I assume you found the money to buy me out. It is too monstrous a coincidence otherwise."

"Watson," I began helplessly, "I…was afraid you would not find a buyer for some time, and Verner was looking for a practice in London. It seemed providential enough. I knew his budget was too small to put in a bid for yours – indeed, for any practice in a decent location – so I told him I would make up for whatever his deficit might be. It was strictly a loan, my dear fellow, and he is still paying me back for it."

Watson only raised an eyebrow at me with that peculiar power to make me squirm as nothing else, not even my brother's formidable glares, could do.

"So it was not charity," I remonstrated desperately.

"No? What would you call it, then?" he demanded. "I've been spending that money for two years now, not knowing it was yours!"

Why did that matter so much to him? And he called me stubborn and prideful. This would take a bit of finesse to wriggle out of. I needed a good explanation (and in short order), though I was not sure myself why I had done what I did . . . ah.

"If you will recall correctly, my dear Watson, it was just after you sold your practice that I ordered you to not publish any more of your stories about our little adventures," I said quietly.

"My memory has not been affected by this case or any other, Holmes."

"Then," I went on despite his glare, "you should see that my interdiction about your publishing badly curtailed your finances. It's only fair to give you some retribution for that prohibition, is it not?"

He blinked, my hastily thought-of explanation never having occurred to his mind before now (or to mine, for that matter, but he need not know that).

"Well, I suppose if you put it that way –"

"I certainly do," I replied emphatically. "Besides, I could not have a cousin of mine, however distant, scrambling for a living."

He still looked unconvinced, but at that moment the outer door of the waiting room opened to reveal Dr. Ives (we were to meet for lunch here), and for the first time since I had met the man, I was actually glad to see him, if only his arrival would stop this uncomfortable conversation.

My somewhat uncharacteristically warm welcome earned me no more than a raised bushy eyebrow and a skeptical look.

"Any news?" the man asked without preamble.

I removed the threatening note from my pocket and handed it to Watson, who in turn passed it to his colleague…his colleague? Since when had I begun thinking of Ives as an equal to my biographer?

Ives read the letter and shook his head in disbelief and revulsion. "Well, apparently your plan worked well enough, Holmes."

"Except for apprehending Brownley, which was the entire goal of the plan," I admitted, too weary of the whole affair to waste breath in justifying my failure.

"Hum, yes. It is a pity that family arrived here last night to effectively ruin the plot," Ives growled, shuffling the letter back into its sheath and replacing it on the table, his glance scanning over Watson for a moment with something like concern.

"Why continue to torture ourselves with what could have been?" my friend asked tiredly, and without looking at either of us. "Now we just have to catch him planting the second note. It's not that much of a difference save a few more sleepless nights."

Ives's eyes suddenly met mine for a moment, and I knew the same terrifying thought had just wormed its way into both our minds.

_Unless there _is_ no second note._


	22. The Doctor Too

_By med'cine life may be prolong'd, yet death will seize the doctor too – Shakespeare_

_**Watson**_

I will admit Brownley's latest message left me more shaken than I should have liked. It was not merely the vocabulary, although that was enough to make even the most hardened soldier wince. It was the nearly palpable hatred, the sort I had not encountered anywhere save Afghanistan. I reminded myself that "Dr. Foley" was the true recipient and he did not exist. Then I could not help but remember that as far as Brownley was concerned, _I_ was Foley, and he meant every word he had written. It is a sobering thing to know that someone despises your very existence and wishes you harm.

And once again, I was annoyed with myself for having granted Brownley the power to disturb me. For I was disturbed, very much so. The original trap had failed because we had neglected to plan for the unexpected. For that, I blamed myself. It had been my idea and Holmes had been coerced into going along with it, against his better judgment.

I tried to remain optimistic. Dr. Robinson had received two notes before the shooting. Most of the other doctors had received many notes without suffering real violence.

On the other hand, Dr. Chamberlain had been given no notice at all before he was murdered.

I did not believe there would be a second note. And I did not think we would have to wait very long before we found out.

Our luncheon was as somber as my thoughts. Holmes finally rose and said he would take the newest clue over to Scotland Yard. "If we are to collaborate on this case I cannot have Lestrade thinking I am withholding evidence from him," he remarked. "He will at least have the same resource to work with as I. Whether or not he will put it to good use is his responsibility."

I smiled at that. Holmes knew full well the information he could gather from looking a simple note was more vast than the information Lestrade could gather. Not that it mattered much at this junction in the case. We knew who our man was; we had but to prove it.

Ives rose to leave also although he lingered until after Holmes had departed. At the door he stopped and fixed me with that familiar piercing look. "How are you bearing up?" he asked cordially, with an undercurrent of steel that warned me not to try the slightest obfuscation.

I shrugged. "Well enough," I managed in my stoutest tone.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips at my words. "It's almost worse having it here than it was over there," Ives mused, not quite to himself. "At least we expected such things from the natives in Afghanistan but to have one of ours . . . This is a bad business," he interrupted himself fiercely. "I didn't like it from the start and I like it less the more it goes on. I confess, I never expected it to get this far."

There was an implied criticism of Holmes and his results in that last sentence, if I chose to interpret it as such. "Holmes discovered Brownley's identity within six days of your first consultation," I pointed out. "And he had been working himself to the ground before that, collecting evidence."

Ives looked puzzled for a moment before he waved his hand impatiently. "I was not passing judgment on your friend's methods. He has accomplished more this past week than Scotland Yard ever could. I do not regret employing him. No, what I meant was, Brownley has you in his sight and the next time he comes here he will come with that damned rifle."

"The second note – "

"There won't be a second note!" Ives roared, still impatient. "The ferocity of the first all but proves that! I think you knew that already," he added more quietly. His eyebrows rose a fraction.

I hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."

"Still bearing up?"

"I don't plan on giving him any quarter on any front," I replied, surprising myself with the intensity of my resolve.

The old doctor grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. "It's good to see that stubbornness hasn't changed," he remarked, "even if it did nearly drive me to distraction in Peshawar."

"Likewise, I'm sure," I could not resist answering.

Ives chuckled. "If you could withstand me as well as the war, Brownley should pose nothing more than a small challenge." He gave me another piercing look. "I underestimated you once and you proved me thoroughly wrong. Our criminal has done the same thing. Prove him wrong as well."

* * *

"Wherever have you been?" I asked in some curiosity as Holmes reappeared in the consulting room after a few hours of absence. He had had the courtesy of waiting until the most recent patient departed but I had not glimpsed movement in the waiting room until just fifteen minutes before. "Surely you did not take up that much of Lestrade's time."

Holmes flung himself into the chair opposite Verner's desk. "No, although we spent enough time having words about the best course of action to take now."

I hesitated. Surely, if I had thought of it, then Holmes had too. "Concerning the forthcoming second note?" I ventured.

"Indeed." Holmes suddenly brought his fist down on the arm of the chair with a snarl. "Of all the accursed luck! If I didn't know better I should be tempted to think Brownley hired that family to thwart us. He never used the post before now; why in heaven's name did he have to break habit now?"

"I suppose I am lucky Brownley didn't forego notes entirely and jump right to killing me," I commented mildly, trying to point out things could have gone worse for us.

I saw Holmes wince, barely perceptively, at my choice of words. "He is not going to kill you," he snapped, his tone final. Still, I persisted.

"He's going to try."

"He's going to fail!"

I found myself amused by his vehemence, as though he might clap Brownley in irons right then and there by the sheer force of his formidable will. The amusement faded when Holmes bounded back out of the chair and paced the length of the room.

"I don't know where this new, resigned pessimism of yours has sprung from but I tell you now I have no patience for it. We have our plan of action; let us stay the course." He halted by the window and glared at me. "I meant what I said about anger serving you better than fear. Need I start an argument to remind you of that?"

"It is not fear," I protested. "It is practicality. You yourself said that it is foolishness, not bravery, not to recognize danger when it is staring you in the face. Brownley _is _going to attempt murder again . . . and I do not think he will deliver a second note beforehand."

At that Holmes quieted. He half-turned towards the window, then looked back at me. "Did Ives tell you that?"

"He did, but I already suspected as much."

Holmes nodded slowly, his gaze introspective. "Then we are all in agreement on that point. Even Lestrade," he added with a flicker of his old spirit. "The good inspector, by the way, thinks it is rank madness to continue. He was in favor of having us all withdraw from the premises. I told him we would see this out with or without official help."

I could picture Lestrade's face when Holmes made that pronouncement and I could not repress a grin. "And what his response to that?"

A similar smile played across my friend's face. "In short, we shall continue to be honored by the presence of the police."

"Very good of them, to be sure," I agreed dryly. "But even given that disagreement with Lestrade, you were gone a surprisingly long time. What were you doing?"

"Reconnaissance, I believe, is the military term for it. Obviously our former positions by the door will no longer suffice. I have observed the neighboring buildings and I am satisfied I know where Brownley will be."

"Where?"

A half-smile played on Holmes's lips, one I recognized immediately and dreaded. Before he could demur I burst out, "Holmes, for pity sake, now is not the time for your dramatic revelations. Please, just tell me, without the theatrics, where you think he will be."

He gave the sigh of the weary and long-suffering. "Oh, very well." Holmes pointed towards the window that faced the street, at the white house directly across the street from my old practice. "He will be right there."

* * *

Ives, Lestrade and two officers, Cummings and Bradwick, had gathered again on the front steps of Dr. Verner's establishment while Holmes – for once – explained the plan he meant to enact. Of course, his plan rested on correctly predicting Brownley's location. The idea he put forth, however, did not meet with immediate concurrence.

"On the roof?" Lestrade demanded incredulously.

"On the roof of the low side-kitchen half hidden by that young cotoneaster tree," Holmes clarified. "It has the benefit of shielding him from view while offering the most advantageous of perches."

"It does appear to be the most logical place for Brownley to choose," Ives admitted grimly, noting the short distance of road that ran between the white house and Dr. Verner's practice.

Holmes gave a quick nod to acknowledge this support. "He will undoubtedly approach from the rear of the building heading towards the street. There are some old crates in a pile back there; he will use them to gain access to the roof. I shall follow him onto it. Listen for my signal, gentlemen, then be prepared to climb as quickly as you can.

"Doctors, once again I ask that you remain indoors. You may hear that 'strange knocking' on the front door; I trust neither of you will go near it until Brownley is apprehended."

"How will we know when that is?" asked Ives.

"Well, you can wait inside like sensible men until a member of the police comes to tell you all is clear" – I raised my eyebrows at Holmes; surely he did not expect us to take on so passive a role! – "or else you may listen for three short blasts on a whistle, which shall signal the same thing.

"And now, gentlemen, I see that dusk is upon us. I suggest we retire to our respective positions."

As we moved to follow his suggestions, Holmes suddenly caught my arm. His face was grave. "Whatever happens, Watson, whatever noises you hear from outside, do not open that door," he whispered intently. "It will be Brownley against the four of us; we will be in much less danger than you. Please, do not venture out unless you hear the signal. Promise me."

Waiting quietly while a criminal is apprehended goes against the grain of my nature. I am, I suppose, too much a man of action for such roles. Even so, I realized giving Holmes peace of mind concerning my safety was the best way to aid him tonight. And so, I nodded. "I give you my word."


	23. A Greater Violence

_Revenge . . . is like a rolling stone, which, when a man hath forced up a hill, will return upon him with a greater violence - Dr. Albert Schweitzer_

_**Holmes**_

While Lestrade and the two constables scattered to their respective positions of surveillance, I remained in the shadows by the white house until the door of Verner's establishment had closed and a lamp glowed softly in the consulting-room. Then, after glancing once more at the familiar shadow that passed between the light and the window on its way to the desk, I retired to my own position beside Lestrade.

We had decided to remain behind a small tool-shed by the back fence, as it still commanded a view of the rooms across the way as well as a clear vantage point from which we could see the kitchen roof and the pile of crates clearly. Cummings and Bradwick remained in the overgrown bushes out front, readied for my signal.

"How long do we have to wait, do you suppose, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade breathed in a barely audible whisper.

"A while. He always has struck after the doctor has retired for the night."

"But he's now changed his method of operation with the notes," the official said, squirming uncomfortably as an insect buzzed round his head. "Supposing he changes his method of murder tonight as well?"

"It won't _be_ murder, Lestrade!" I hissed angrily, despite knowing that the man had not intended it the way it sounded.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes."

I frowned, the train of thought running through my mind suddenly overtaking me with a sickening sensation I categorized as the rare feeling of doubt. What if he did change something in his method? Suppose Brownley decided to not use the Jezail and instead tried a scheme I had not budgeted for and had not warned Watson and Ives to be prepared for?

Ives had agreed with me on the idea that the sniper would most likely use this spot from which to fire that infernal weapon (though his concurring was not overly confidence-inspiring to me), but what if we both were wrong, and the man worked from somewhere else? Would I be able to reach him in time? Just because Watson had promised to keep the door closed until the signal did not mean something would not go wrong…

I flung off the terrible thoughts with an almost physical shake. No, the man had no reason to alter his sniping habits. He had already shown adaptability with the threats (on one occasion, the note being replaced by a dead pigeon and another by a rock through a window), but he had never yet altered his shooting in any way. Why should he start now, when there was no reason to?

And besides, the sniping and the Jezail rifle, if I read his character and mindset correctly, were his trademark, a sort of horrifying poetic justice in his mind to executing the army doctors he now regarded as having wronged him so deeply.

Lestrade impatiently waved away another insect, watching the pile of crates before us as if expecting the man to materialize out of one of them. I glanced over at the house across the street and saw the lamp still burning and the shadows on the blind as one of them passed in front of it, probably on the way to sit by the fire.

I attempted to soothe my disturbed thoughts with the knowledge that both Watson and Ives were armed, and that they both were soldiers and actually far more accustomed to snipers and combat than I was – why then was I so desperately worried about the outcome of tonight's work? Surely nothing could go wrong that the combination of two soldiers, a detective, and several policeman could not handle?

As long as my friend left that door closed as he had promised, he would be in no serious danger. I was banking on his word of honour and my own confidence; the former I knew I could rely upon, the latter I could only hope was worthy. I was gambling a bit out of my means tonight.

The sun had nearly set fully now and the streets were darkling, accompanied by no sound save the clopping of a cab horse on a nearby street and the occasional noises of nocturnal animals beginning their evening prowls…

…and Lestrade's fidgeting. The man simply could not stand still, apparently, and I sent my most annoyed glare in his direction which unfortunately he could not see through the thick gloom. And evidently his nervousness was contagious, for I found myself wishing to fidget urgently, wondering how long we would have to wait for this man.

I am not given to fits of nervous tension, but the stakes were considerably higher this time than any normal case I had yet undertaken, and I found myself growing increasingly worried as the quarter-hours and then half-hours crept by with no sign of our murderous quarry.

I heard a distant deep tolling of bells, signifying another hour had gone by with no action and that it was nearing eleven o'clock. Brownley would strike soon; Watson (and Ives) had maintained a pretense of retiring around this time.

I stiffened, and I felt Lestrade do the same, as a lone cab clopped slowly down the street in our direction. Surely the man would not arrive in so open a fashion, although sometimes the most obvious approach was the safest.

"I hope that's not a patient like last night," Lestrade whispered, peeking round the side of the shed below me.

If it were, it would ruin everything, and we would have to regroup and spend yet another miserable night in another miserable vigil.

The official and I both breathed a sigh of relief as the cab trotted round the corner and the clatter of hooves and wheels died away on the night wind. Then I again froze, for I had heard another sound. A slow stepping upon the pavement by the street. I had heard various pedestrians all evening, but this one was considerably slower – not someone hurrying home from work but someone who was in no hurry whatsoever.

I shrank back into the shadows and Lestrade did the same, as the footsteps drew nearer to our shed. Finally the figure of a man, slightly stooped and wearing a heavy and rather bulging overcoat, slunk along the house wall and appeared out of the shadows cast by the eaves.

It was indeed Alexander Brownley, and he was indeed heading for the pile of crates I had before indicated.

All remaining doubts fled my mind upon that instant of revealing triumph, and I felt my face break into a sardonic smile. Now all would be according to plan, as long as that door across the way remained closed. In only a few minutes I would have him, and this half-manic villain that had terrorized London for months would be finished.

I watched with an odd sort of morbid fascination as Brownley hopped nimbly upon the first crate and from there crept onto the side kitchen roof in such a fluid movement that I no longer wondered at the ease with which he had climbed the doghouse and trellis at Chamberlain's residence. He was certainly not as incapacitated as he appeared, and not as much as I had hoped either.

Once the man's boots had disappeared on the rooftop above me, I rubbed my sweating palms on my coat and, after nodding to Lestrade, crept noiselessly out into the open area and from there onto the crates, trying to make as little noise as possible. The official was supposed to wait until he heard my voice before beginning to ascend; I wanted no clumsy bungling from the little man ruining a carefully laid plot.

I need not have bothered trying to be silent, however, as the air suddenly was filled with a loud staccato banging of rock against wood at irregular intervals. My quarry was hurling pieces of what I assumed to be coal or stones at the door of Verner's consulting room.

_Watson, under no circumstances open that door_, my brain formed the words fervently as I endeavoured to scramble up after the man on the roof without his hearing me. I managed the feat after a bit of difficulty in being silent and a skinned palm, finally standing at the other end of the kitchen roof behind the unsuspecting Brownley.

A deadly-looking, long – I only now fully comprehended _how_ long – rifle lay on the roof beside the man as he flung another stone at the door of the lighted house across the way, snarling softly to himself under his breath as he did. The sound of a cold fury-laden voice and the sight of the horrendous weapon both sent a shiver down my spine which I promptly quashed in the interests of remaining calm for the capture.

This might actually come off rather easily, if the man were indeed so confident in his invincibility that he never looked behind him.

Brownley swore suddenly, violently, using language I only recalled hearing in one of the threats I had seen addressed to army doctors – evidently the man was more than slightly frustrated that his pounding on the door was not heard inside the house, when obviously Dr. Foley was still awake.

That meant I had to move now, before he grew suspicious at the door not opening and took himself away, never to give us this chance again. I made my way silently across the rooftop as the man flung another couple of stones at the door.

"I'm afraid the Doctor is not in this evening, Mr. Brownley," I said coolly when once I was a few paces behind the man.

I must admit that I was certainly not expecting such a quick reaction from a man I had surprised in such a way; in retrospect, it would have been wiser to incapacitate him before indulging in theatrics, because as a soldier no doubt his reflexes were certainly superiour to my own.

As it was, the man snarled with rage and disappointment, whirling upon me for only an instant with a look of utter hatred as he recognized me from the pension office. Then he snatched up his weapon and promptly dropped over the side of the low roof, taking me completely by surprise with his agility.

"Lestrade!" I bellowed angrily, thoroughly incensed at being taken aback by this unexpected development.

I wasted no time in further self-beration but jumped down after my quarry, nearly bowling over the little Inspector who had heard the thud of a man landing upon the grass and was running directly below me when I jumped.

Lestrade had shouted to the constables at the front of the house and they had (surprisingly) shown remarkable quickness in drawing their truncheons and blocking Brownley's path of escape toward the street. The man whirled upon the two of us, hatred etched in every harsh feature and glaring in the moonlight.

That three-foot long rifle was certainly an unwieldy and awkward weapon, but a very effective club. Lestrade found out this fact the hard way when Brownley swore at him and swung the stock of the gun into the official's stomach with enough force to send him sprawling with a choked airless cry.

For once in my lifetime, I actually was rather glad to have the police backing me up in the apprehension of a criminal; before I could even react, Cummings and Bradwick had caught the man by both arms and I darted forward to wrest the rifle from his grasp. Alexander Brownley had fired his last shot with the horrible thing.

"You all right, Inspector?" Cummings called anxiously, gripping the struggling Brownley with both capable hands.

"Quite," Lestrade growled breathlessly, though he did wince a bit as I helped him to his feet once more. He looked at the rifle in my hands with a mixture of disbelief and revulsion. "Nasty-looking thing, isn't it?"

"Brilliantly observant as always, Lestrade," I replied dryly.

The man did not deign to respond but rather looked the furious Brownley up and down. At least the man had stopped his struggling and cursing, though the silence from such a cold-blooded killer was more unnerving than the expected violence.

"Between the rifle, the coal upon the doorstep across the street, and the method in each murder, you should have an airtight case, Lestrade," I said with a triumphant smile, looking over the Jezail rifle in my hands with some curiosity. "Oh, do give the signal to the doctors, one of you. See, Lestrade, how the stock is curved so as to fit between the arm and –"

I heard the three sharp blasts upon a police whistle only an instant before something slammed into my back from behind, knocking me sprawling upon the inert yelping form of the smaller Inspector, whose squirming and kicking did more harm to my person than the actual fall had done. But the rifle in my hands had clattered to the ground as I hit the ground, and it no longer was beside me…

I scrambled to my feet as my brain registered what had happened and dove for Brownley's legs just as he raised the weapon to his shoulder in a swifter motion than I had seen from the man yet. He shouted in blind rage as we both tumbled to the ground. A sudden explosion rocked my senses and deafened me momentarily, leaving my ears buzzing and my balance off as I tried to dodge a kicking, booted foot aimed at my face.

I vaguely heard Lestrade's voice bellowing an order somewhere out and above me. My anger at what had just nearly happened fueled a burning rage suddenly through my veins as Brownley's leering face moved in far too close to mine, his hands grappling for my throat.

I planted my fist squarely under the murderer's jaw, snapping his head back with enough force to make me smile. Then, rolling out from under the stunned, semi-conscious sniper, I caught both his arms and twisted them behind him in a full armlock, hauling the man to his feet where he limply staggered against me.

I was just in time to hear Lestrade berating one of the young constables – Bradwick, he was the newer one to the force if my memory served – with all his inherent bluster that could make anyone at the Yard under the rank of sergeant cower within seconds.

"Bradwick, I swear, how many times must I tell you a prisoner is _not_ secure until the derbies are _on him_, and _two_ men are holding him in addition to that precaution?" the good inspector shouted.

I noted with some amusement that a window-shade went up in the house next door, the family roused no doubt by the man's dulcet tones.

"If the doctor – either of them – had been hurt because of your blundering, I'd see that you pound a beat in Whitechapel for the rest of your miserable days on the force, do you understand me?" Lestrade demanded, his nose scant inches from the cringing young constable's. "It's a very, very lucky thing for you, Constable, that that shot went wild, thanks to Mr. Holmes's quick action!"

"Inspector," Cummings said softly, coming over to take Brownley's limp arms in a firm grip. He fastened a pair of handcuffs tightly round the man's scarred wrists. I relinquished my hold on our murderer (who was still groggy from my blow) as the officer finished and glanced between me and his superiour.

"Don't move, Bradwick, I'm not through with you yet," Lestrade warned the unfortunate young fellow through clenched teeth before turning in our direction. "What is it, Cummings?"

"Inspector…I don't think the shot went wild," the constable said quietly, casting me a fearful look. "The door opened just before our man fired, sir. It's closed now."

I felt my face grow deathly cold, even as I looked back at the house across the street. The door was indeed now closed, and every light in the house was on when they had not been ten minutes ago; the staff had been roused and were moving about on some urgent purpose. There was no sign of either of the doctors coming out to see the man we had captured.

And knowing Ives and Watson as I did, I knew only one thing would stop either of them from confronting the man who had so terrorized them and their fellow doctors for the last few months.

I thrust the Jezail rifle into Lestrade's suddenly shaking hands, wishing my own were even that steady.

"Do not allow him to escape you, Lestrade. He must live to hang."

"Mr. Holmes, I –"

But I was already halfway across the street.


	24. Never Been Sick Himself

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Never Been Sick Himself

_No man is a good doctor who has never been sick himself. -Chinese Proverb_

_**Watson**_

I had given Holmes my word of honor that I would not open the door before hearing the signal and I did not mean to break it. Even so, it was torturous to wait there in the incongruous, homey light of the lamp on the table. Neither Ives nor I even maintained a pretense of reading this night. It would fool no one, save perhaps Brownley, and we knew he would not appear until the household appeared asleep.

Our conversation was intermittent. The atmosphere was not condusive to light chatter but every now and then, when the silence threatened to drive us mad, one of us would make some observation or comment. I was not worried for myself; Holmes had assured me we would be safer within the house than those without. That was precisely the problem. I had not had much experience with snipers but I knew enough to know they could vanish into the environment like smoke on the wind. Brownley had already proven he had no scruples or holds when it came to violence. It would indeed be four against one but that one could very well prove a challenge.

Time passed, each second counted out meticulously by the weighted tick of Verner's clock mounted on the wall. I tried my utmost not to imagine our confederates waiting outside in the summer night's stillness as each passing minute drew them closer to danger. For that reason, as much as I wished this night to end, I could not in good conscience will time go move faster.

At last our respective patiences gave out. No sooner had the clock on the wall struck quarter to eleven than Ives doused the light and we sat with revolvers not only drawn but gripped firmly in hand. No doubt it was only my nerves keyed up to the highest point but the darkness seemed to amplify the faintest of sounds. The clock's incessant ticking boomed out into the room. The faint clomping of a horse and the rattle of its carriage's wheel on the cobblestones echoed to us with perfect clarity. The sound of Ives's breathing, and my own as well, seemed so loud we surely could have been heard from the street.

Held in this state of tension, I trust I may be forgiven for jumping so violently I nearly dropped my revolver when the pounding came. Ives drew a sharp breath at the first solid thud against the door. Two more thuds rapidly followed. I rose from my chair and started towards the door.

"Are you mad?" Ives hissed at me, leaping from his own chair and grasping my arm.

"I have no intentions of opening the door until we are signaled," I whispered back, peeved that he would think me so witless. "But the instant I hear that whistle I am going outside."

"You want to see him," Ives said matter-of-factly as the pounding continued.

"Yes."

"So do I. It will be immensely satisfying, I think, to – "

He stopped himself short as the thumps ended. "Have they got him?"

We both moved closer to the entry-way, creeping along like timid rabbits, when two more thuds shook the solid wood of the door. There was a chilling silence, followed by what sounded like a faint shout. For another moment we were frozen in place. Then Ives turned and ran back to the waiting room and turned the lamp back up before hurrying back to me. I moved even closer to the door, curling my left hand about the knob. It was an awkward position, for the hinges of the door were to my right and it swung inward, but I was unwilling to allow my revolver to leave my dominant hand.

I thought I could hear faint scuffling noises from the street and my imagination ran through an uncontrollable gamut of horrific outcomes. Had Brownley escaped? Had he not? Was someone injured? Just when I felt my nerves could not stand another moment, there came the blessed sound of three blasts of a police whistle. Immediately I had the door open and was standing on the top step.

As I peered out into the dimness, illuminated only by the faint streetlights, I realized something was wrong. I could see the figures of, I presumed, Holmes and the police and there appeared to be some kind of struggle. Two men went down; a third bent and snatched up something, something long and thin –

I realized what was going to happen, unfortunately, at about the same time it did happen. With a gasp I stepped back inside and started to close the door. I vaguely heard Ives shout something indignant as I stepped backward into him but I never heard his exact words.

There was a terrific report and a blinding flash of light from the street. Instinctively I ducked down and listed to the right, behind the door. Then came a streak of burning pain just above my left ear. Desperation gave me the control to finally slam the door shut completely. A second later my limbs turned to jelly and I could not keep my feet. Worse, my vision went completely black and there was a dull, deafening ringing in my ears.

I felt Ives catch my arms to hold me upright but after that my awareness and sense of time skewed into nonsense. I felt myself moving backwards; no doubt I was being walked – half dragged, really – into the interior of the house. I was also dimly aware that I was being settled into a chair though I did not know whether it was the waiting room or the consulting room.

As I slowly regained my senses the pain in my head grew to hot agony. With it came a wretched nausea. I could feel the wet blood as it poured down my neck, and into my ear. Irrationally, it was the tickling sensation of the latter that irked me the most. I raised my hand to wipe the blood away when Ives seized my hand and pressed it against a wad of cotton wool he had put against the wound. I could not repress a gasp at the sting the pressure caused but my medical instincts kept my hand in place. Then I gasped again and flinched when the bright yellow light of a lit match flashed into my eyes.

"Good," Ives muttered as I blinked back the tears that had welled up reflexively. "Pupil response is a trifle slow but still adequate." The room grew brighter. I realized he had used the match to light a few nearby candles. Professionally I understood the need for light. As the patient I greatly resented it; the head trauma had made me painfully sensitive to it.

"Concussion symptoms?"

It took me a moment to realize Ives was asking me how I felt, and that I needed to respond. "All present," I managed through clenched teeth. My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Perhaps it was the blood that had infiltrated the left one that was to blame. I started to shift the cotton wool.

Ives gently grasped my wrist and held it immobile. "I realize you are currently dazed but I should hope you are still cognizant enough to realize you need to maintain direct pressure to slow the bleeding."

I truly did appreciate the need to keep the gauze where it was. At the time, however, I found another matter far more pressing. "There is blood in my ear."

"There is blood all over you," Ives replied. "We shall attend to it in time. No, Miss Beckham, there is no need to be alarmed. Why don't you go assist Mrs. King prepare some tea?"

I turned to see who the older doctor was speaking to and discovered the hard way I was not yet ready for such fast movements. Once again my vision darkened and a wave of nausea washed over me which I was only barely able to fight down.

"Sit still," Ives ordered, somehow making himself heard over the returning roar in my ears. "Just sit still, I don't care who walks through that – "

"Watson!"

I did not need to move to recognize that voice as Holmes's, although the frantic note of desperation was an alien element. It was that quality that would have made me turn to look at him, were it not for Ives still restraining my hand and thus my head. Then, of course, Holmes made any movement of mine superfluous by pounding across the floor and crouching down in front of me.

My vision was still blurry but I could see how pale and drawn his features were. The objective mask of the professional was utterly stripped away and I saw a naked horror in his eyes as he took in the blood, the gauze, and my undoubtedly unfocused gaze. "My God," he whispered brokenly. "Watson, I . . . " Suddenly he stood and whirled 'round to Ives. "How bad?"

"Not very," I offered thickly though he wasn't demanding answers of me. I knew I wasn't seriously concussed, not if I hadn't lost consciousness and could still remember the initial wounding . . . even if my head was throbbing and movement was torturous.

My friend turned back to me with his expression softened slightly. "I am glad to hear you say that," Holmes said, "but even so . . . " He glanced at Ives.

"Grazing shot along the temporal bone with a minor concussion," the elderly doctor answered calmly, rummaging through Dr. Verner's supplies. "Head wounds always bleed heavily, as you know, so it does look worse than it is. I don't think the laceration is deep enough to require stitches but it is deucedly long. Move your hand, please," he added, to me, with bandaging supplies in his hands

Gingerly I lowered the cotton wool, feeling the first of the coagulating blood separate from my hair with reluctance. Holmes inhaled sharply through his nose as he took in the wound and his expression hardened with anger while his eyes remained miserable.

"I did wait for the signal," I tried to reassure him while Ives began applying a fresh bandage.

It was the wrong thing to say for his eyes hardened as well. "I know you did, Watson. This was not your doing in the slightest. That confounded signal was given too soon."

Ives paused in his work. "Why? What happened?"

Holmes sighed, sounding infinitely weary, and sat on the edge of desk with his head bent. "First, my accursed penchant for dramatics enabled Brownley to escape my grasp by jumping off the roof towards the street where he put up a struggle before being apprehended by Constables Cummings and Bradwick. Then I told them to give the signal . . . and I quite literally turned my back to them."

"Brownley made a break for it?" asked Ives, with curiosity tempered with tact.

"He was not fully secured, as we discovered," Holmes snarled, though his anger was directly internally. "Lestrade had some hard words with Bradwick about it afterwards."

"Well, if it was he who gave the all-clear signal without first verifying that all was clear, I shouldn't blame the inspector in the least," retorted Ives, still skillfully wrapping the bandage 'round my head.

The linen came down low over my forehead but did not impede my line of sight in the least. After telling us the story of the night's adventure, Holmes did not so much as glance in my direction. I feared he blamed himself for the mishaps in the capture, and for the wounding I had sustained. I knew, from previous observation, that a self-recriminating Sherlock Holmes was prey to the blackest of his black moods, especially coming at the end of a case. I was trying to formulate some phrase that would stay off his depression, at least temporarily, when something else caught my attention.

"You were hit?" I gasped when Ives passed in front of me and I saw the shoulder of his suitcoat. Holmes snapped to attention and was at Ives's side in an instant.

"That's your blood, not mine," the older doctor retorted, back to his characteristic brusqueness, trying to shake Holmes's grip from his arm.

"I beg to differ, Doctor," the detective contradicted. "This nature of this hole with the black powder burn indicates you too were injured tonight." He pressed lightly on the area in question and Ives flinched, then scowled.

"It is a trifle; I shall deal with it later."

"Is there perhaps some paragraph in the Hippocratic Oath that mandates a doctor's disregard of his own health?" Holmes demanded, exasperated. Anger, I noted with some inappropriate humor, served him better than guilt. His black mood had been averted more effectively than I could have achieved.

"Third paragraph, fourth line," snapped Ives sarcastically, finally shaking off Holmes and securing my bandage at last. "I said it is a trifle. You need not concern yourself with it."

I expected Holmes to match Ives in caustic words in tone. Instead, he grew quietly sincere. "Again, Doctor, I beg to differ. Both you and Watson were potential targets as far as Brownley was concerned. Therefore, both you and Watson were under my protection tonight. Any failure on my part to maintain that protection _is_ my concern."


	25. Who Is Your Patient

Chapter One

_Never forget that it is not a pneumonia, but a pneumonic man who is your patient. -William Withey Gull _

_**Watson**_

Before Holmes could launch into another fit of self-deprecation, I headed the reaction off with a hastily interjected comment of concern over Ives's condition, asking him to allow me to return the favour he had just tended to me.

"I seriously doubt that you would be able to do so," he replied dryly, "seeing as your eyes have obviously not yet returned to normal."

"I can see well enough…" I started to rise, albeit rather unsteadily as the movement caused the throbbing inside my head to drastically increase.

No sooner had I attempted the feat than two different but equally strong hands upon my shoulders shoved me unceremoniously back into the chair. While I did not at all appreciate being manhandled, I realised from the wave of nausea that threatened my control that I should remain seated for a bit longer yet.

"Watson, sit down!"

"Need I remind you again to stay still?"

"I will do so, but only if you take care of that shoulder," I responded, ignoring both glares bestowed upon me at the moment. I was grateful that my voice was beginning to lose its slur at least.

"Doctor, if you will allow me –"

"Mr. Holmes, I assure you I am far more familiar with bandaging bullet wounds than you are, and I am perfectly capable of managing on my own," the older man interrupted with some asperity, shaking off Holmes's hand once more and removing his jacket with a slight struggle.

My vision was slowly returning to normal clarity, though some lingering blurriness was still in evidence. But I could see the red stain on my colleague's sleeve well enough regardless of the fact. Holmes swore under his breath, digging through the drawer for more linen as Ives gingerly removed his arm from its sleeve.

"Also a superficial graze," he said calmly for my benefit, though I wished I could see for certain the veracity of his words.

"If I'd been faster slamming that door…if I hadn't ducked when I did…"

"If you hadn't, you in all probability would be dead right now," Ives shot back at me, beginning to bandage the graze upon his shoulder, somewhat awkwardly with only one hand. "He was a deucedly good shot, even with Holmes tackling him."

The detective winced visibly at the reminder of what he no doubt regarded as a failure on his part but said nothing. He stepped hesitantly closer and, after shooting a wary glance at the old army doctor, reached out to hold the bandaging in place over the wound while Ives continued to wrap it snugly, scowling at my friend all the while.

"I should never have allowed Lestrade to pick his own men," Holmes muttered through clenched teeth. "A very serious oversight on my part, not approving the men and their levels of experience myself."

Ives raised one bushy eyebrow. "You didn't personally ensure that the best men possible were on the job, when your closest friend's very life was at stake?"

Perhaps it was the lingering unpleasant effects of the concussion, but it seemed to me that the air had just become charged with a crackling electric tension.

"If you will remember, Dr. Ives, this entire plan was not my idea but rather a result of your and Watson's conniving behind my back," the detective snapped, stepping back from the other as the bandage was fastened securely in place. "I expressed my disapproval at the time in the most strenuous possible terms, and I had no part in planning this save to set in place precautions against getting you both killed!"

I debated whether to attempt to neutralize the dark clouds gathering in this room but decided that now was as good a time for the storm to break as any. Besides, I really had not the energy to spend in braving a cross-fire to call a truce. I closed my eyes against the brightness of the light and rested my head very gingerly in my hand, listening to the dialogue growing rapidly taut with tension.

"I was not saying I blamed you for the accident tonight, Holmes."

"But you were implying it."

"I was doing nothing of the kind. I was pointing out that in retrospect, the wiser course might have been to hand-pick the men yourself for such a job, perhaps someone who is more familiar with snipers and their unanticipated movements."

"Someone like you, is that it? Namely, that you would have done a better job in choosing the men, since _you_ are so familiar with the entire affair from the beginning? In fact, you seem to be far more familiar with all things concerning Watson's private life in general, dating back to your army days."

Had I been able to think or see clearly, I should thoroughly have enjoyed the fact that Holmes was no longer even attempting to disguise the rampant jealousy in his tone over a part of my life that he had heard little about and seen even less of.

But as it was, the vocalization of his annoyance merely increased the pounding behind my eyes and I slumped down in my seat, resting my throbbing head on the cool tabletop, completely unnoticed by the two verbal combatants now sizing each other up somewhere above me.

"Do you always make a habit of twisting a man's words into what you wish them to mean?" Ives's voice had become sharp and chilled as ice, a definitive contrast to the increasing pitch of the strained detective's.

"Do _you_ always make a habit of becoming so intimately involved in someone else's affairs?" Holmes retorted. "I was perfectly in control of the matter until – Watson, wake up!"

This last was accompanied by a hand slapping down upon the desk just beside me, quite effectively jarring any momentary relief I might have gained from resting in that position. I jerked upright as pain shot through my skull in a bright flash.

"Don't do that!" I snapped, my well of long-suffering patience with him having nearly run dry by this point in a very trying case.

"You cannot fall asleep, Watson," he said anxiously, a deep worry for a moment running swiftly through his eyes before they again darkened with antagonism directed at my colleague.

"I can hardly be expected to sleep with you two bickering," I retorted irritably, wishing I could fully focus my vision, "and you need hardly tell _me_ what I can and cannot do under the effects of a concussion!"

"Actually, since you never fully lost consciousness, you probably could sleep with no dangerous after-effects, as long as I keep you under observation as a precaution," Ives remarked calmly. I was _also_ aware of that fact, but I did not bother to voice my irritation.

"_We_ will keep him under observation," Holmes growled through his teeth.

"There is no need for both of us to stay with him, Holmes. Of course, _I_ am not familiar with such proceedings myself but undoubtedly you have formalities to complete with the police. We each have our own responsibilities to attend to and this is, after all, _your_ case." The tone was polite, frigidly so, but I saw Holmes stiffen as the barb hit home.

I was quite rapidly growing weary of being discussed once again as if I were not even present, and I was more than slightly frustrated by the two of them glowering at each other over my head, like two wolves about to fight for possession of a fresh kill. I shuddered at the horribly fitting simile my muddled mind had just conjured up.

"I am not going anywhere while Watson is sitting here injured, Doctor," Holmes said with a deathly calm.

"And _I_ am not going anywhere until I have satisfied myself as to his well-being," Ives retorted, equally implacable. "As the attending physician, I am going to keep him under observation for the next twenty-four hours at least. You may cooperate with me or fight me every step. It will make no difference to me personally or to the outcome of the matter."

My vision was clear enough by this time to see a dark red flush spread over Holmes's pale face, his steely eyes contracting in a seething anger. Whether it was this sight or that of Ives, standing much more calmly with his arms folded and glaring icily at my friend over my head, that snapped the last taut nerve I retained after tonight I do not know.

I do know that somehow I made my feet before my two surprised companions could prevent me from the movement.

"That is _enough_, from both of you," I snapped, surprising myself with both my vehemence and the clarity with which my voice was imbued, considering the condition of my abused head.

I believe I surprised Ives and Holmes as well, for the latter at least took a step backward at my furious outburst. I had no doubt that I looked less than imposing, with a wide bandage round my temples and still-drying blood completely covering my face, neck, collar, and shirt; but I had had entirely enough for one night.

"I am thoroughly disgusted with your petty jealousies and childish antagonism," I snapped at both of them, leaning a hand unobtrusively on the table to steady myself as anger pumped a rush of blood through my still-throbbing head. "I need no one to keep me under observation, and until you can both at least call a cease-fire on your foolishness I refuse to submit myself to either of your cares. Is that clear, gentlemen?"

And without waiting for an answer from either of my stunned companions, I spun on my heel, choking down a wave of dizziness for appearance's sake, and left the room, shutting the front door firmly and definitively behind me.

Then and only then did I lean against it for a long minute to steady my spinning head.


	26. The Most Powerful Drugs

__

In medicine, as in statecraft and propaganda, words are sometimes the most powerful drugs we can use. – Sara Murray Jordan

**Holmes**

To my utter astonishment, Ives threw back his head and laughed heartily. "Oh, that damned stubborn fool!" he chortled at the end of the paroxysm. "That temper of his hasn't changed one jot!"

I strove to cover my confusion, first at Watson's outburst and then at Ives's reaction. Besides, I had more pressing concerns than what caused the elderly doctor's bout of mirth. "Do you seriously mean to let him leave on his own, not fifteen minutes after he's been shot and concussed?"

"Certainly." Ives calmly settled himself into the chair Watson had just vacated and looked at me frankly. "Medically speaking, however, he was not shot. He was grazed. The bullet, or what remains of it, is currently buried in the plaster of the hallway wall."

"And that causes you no concern?"

"I assume you refer to Watson, not the bullet, and yes, of course it concerns me! You saw how he was walking, how his eyes weren't entirely focused. He's going to cause himself a world of damage if he's not careful."

"Then why are we not going after him?"

"Because he _is_ careful. For the most part, anyway," he muttered, smiling at some remembrance I knew nothing of. "Moreover, he is right."

"And he has no way of leaving Kensington," I pointed out as the sudden realization struck me. At this time of night cabs were few and far between, even in such a district as Kensington. Even in a rage, Watson was not foolish enough to try to walk back to Baker Street in the dark, not with an unstable gait, blurred vision, pronounced blood loss, and what I had no doubt was a throbbing headache. Unless Lestrade and company had not yet left for Scotland Yard with their prisoner, Watson was not leaving the neighborhood.

Ives's formidable eyebrows had risen. "Are you changing the subject?"

"No, I am merely wondering if Watson realized his ambulatory limitations before he stormed out, or if he is presently standing on the front steps taking stock of his options and finding them lacking."

"Well, let him stay there if he wishes. I think we rather owe him a truce before we rejoin his company."

I folded my arms and resumed leaning against my cousin's desk. "A truce? You make it sound as if we two were engaged in combat."

"Most certainly we are," retorted he. "And like most battles, it is being waged over the most ridiculous reasons."

I felt my spine stiffen at the clear criticism. "Then it is fortunate for all concerned that this case is, for the most part, complete and we need not continue this strife," I said as graciously as I could though I fear the best I achieved was coldly formal. "And now, Doctor, as you yourself pointed out a few minutes ago, I do have a few matters to finish tying up with the police. If I pass Watson on the steps I shall let him know it is safe to enter the house again."

I had but turned when Ives, utterly devoid of his usual abrasive manner, stopped me in my tracks. "Mr. Holmes. I extended the olive branch, as it were, a few days back. I don't blame you for not accepting it then. It was not offered in the most altruistic of spirits."

I turned to look at him. Yes, I remembered his words then. He said I might find we had more in common, if I could drop my antagonism. It hardly seemed a message of peace at the time, he was right about that.

At my silent question, Ives continued in an unusually calm and straightforward manner. "You did not take to me from the start, and I . . . well, to be frank, I have deliberately not done much to dissuade you from that first impression. If anything, I have cultivated antagonism."

"Why?"

Far from looking ashamed, he merely leaned back in the chair, fully at his ease. "Mr. Holmes, I was running army field hospitals before Prince Albert died. As you may have noticed, I am stubborn, opinionated, intolerant of foolishness, and utterly convinced of the correctness of my views. It is part and parcel of my line of work. You are equally stubborn, opinionated, intolerant of foolishness, and utterly convinced you are right."

"You suggest it is a case of two suns attempting to share the same orbit."

"Actually, I had in mind the image of two male tigers fighting over territory. But then, I have spent many years in the East."

"The territory you mean, I presume, is Watson."

"Watson, the case, any number of things. If you wish to proceed chronologically, it began with the case. When I first approached you I had already determined how I wished the investigation to proceed. When it did not follow my expectations I responded as I would have in India – dominantly and belligerently."

"My compliments," I offered, surprised. "Not many men would have such a thorough grasp their own motives and reasonings."

"I believe in saving time by calling a spade a spade," replied Ives dismissively. "Shall I continue with my part of the war?"

"Pray do."

He smiled faintly at my encouragement as if acknowledging my enjoyment at his confession. "Then, of course, I recognized my own characteristics in you and familiarity, as they say, breeds contempt. I have read of you in the _Strand_; you pride yourself on seeing and knowing things others don't, makes up your very livelihood. I exploited this trait."

I grasped his meaning immediately. "Watson."

"It was obvious from the first – to me, at least – that you do not have a firm knowledge of your friend's life before Baker Street. His army days. But I do. And I paraded my knowledge before you like a flag, knowing full well how much it would gall you." At last the unwavering gaze left my face though it returned momentarily. "Not one of my finer moments, I admit. And no less childish than your behavior."

I must have started for he snorted with brief laughter. "Come now, I have made a clean breast of it. Surely the greatest consulting detective can do no less."

There was in Ives's tone an element meant to goad me on, but there was too an avuncular fondness I found more unnerving than his usual abrasiveness. If I am to be patronized I prefer it to be because of sense of superiority, not seniority. It is far easier to argue against the subjective idea of 'betters' than it is against the unequivocal evidence of age. Nevertheless, I determined to make as good a job of it as he.

"I am, as you said, arrogant, proud, and inflexible," I began, matching his candidness. "I do not often come across clients who dictate how an investigation is to be conducted. When I do, they are usually among the nobility or wealthy and it takes no more than a little leverage to . . . make them see reason." Ives outright grinned at my description, one kindred soul to another. Still faintly unnerved, I continued.

"Nor do I often see clients so knowledgeable about their own cases. You were unusually well-versed in the events leading up to the murder of Dr. Chamberlain, so much so that I did suspect you as having some part in the harassments."

The astonishment on Ives's features was immensely gratifying. "I?"

"Oh, yes. I had you followed by my Irregulars until I was convinced of your innocence. Then, of course, Watson vouched for your character."

The shock had dwindled into sheepish amusement. "And to think I didn't notice them!" he said softly, shaking his head. "It is a point to you, Mr. Holmes, but please, go on."

"You were absolutely right that it was galling to realize how little I know of Watson's personal military history," I said with absolute frankness. "It was galling not only as a detective –" I broke off, unwilling to be so open to a man I knew to be an ally but still did not entirely like.

Naturally, Ives would not let it go at that. "Not only as a detective but as his friend," he finished, the ghost of smirk on his face.

"Indeed." That admission out of the way, I strove for levity. "I do not have many friends and I fear I can be quite possessive of my things. It is a vice I have not yet conquered though I know it be entirely . . . _childish_." I put careful emphasis on the last word, trusting Ives to understand I was agreeing with Watson's assessment of me.

I was not disappointed. "And I fear I am too old and set in my ways to unlearn my _antagonistic_ conduct," he conceded with a grin.

"What a pity," I replied insincerely, smiling in return. "We are at an impasse, then, if we cannot put aside our differences."

"I suppose there is nothing more to it than to track down our wayward acquaintance and tell him the news," Ives concluded and stiffly rose from the chair.

I fully supported his course of action until we reached the front door and Watson was nowhere to be found.


	27. Cannot Be Separated

_The greatest mistake in the treatment of diseases is that there are physicians for the body and physicians for the soul, although the two cannot be separated. –Plato _

_**Watson **_

I made it out the front door without mishap, though the world refused to stand in one place for more than a few seconds as if trying its best to thwart my equilibrium and bring me down in an ignominious heap on my own old front door-step.

The cool night air was certainly a welcome change after the electric tension of the room I had just vacated, however, and after standing for a few minutes on the stoop I began to feel my taut nerves returning to some semblance of normalcy once more.

I could hear no sound from within the house, to my surprise, and wondered with a distracted amusement if Ives and Holmes were simply sitting there glowering at each other in silence. That thought promptly left my mind when another wave of nausea swept over me, though less intense than the last had been, and I leant against the railings for a moment to recover myself.

A cab pulled up at the curb, and I glanced up in time to see a familiar figure hop down and shout for the driver to wait, then start in surprise when he saw me.

"Dr. Watson! What in heaven's name are you doing out here – were you shot?" Lestrade gasped, hesitantly taking my arm when I rubbed my eyes to focus on his slightly hazy appearance.

"Just grazed, Inspector. And I am standing here to let the air clear in that house," I replied dryly, gesturing to the lit window where we could see one man at least standing rigidly, arms folded. "Did you book Brownley?"

"Begging your pardon, Doctor, but…I really think you should sit down. You look a sight," Lestrade said, with genuine concern tingeing his voice as he glanced at the blood coating my neck and clothing.

As if to corroborate his words, the pavement seemed to tilt slightly under my feet, and I felt the official's grip upon my arm tighten. "Doctor?"

"Lestrade…do you think possibly you might give me a ride back to Baker Street?" I asked.

"Well, of course, Doctor – but wouldn't it be better for you to just go back inside?" the man asked curiously.

"No," I replied dryly.

Lestrade grinned knowingly, glancing again at the window. "All right, Doctor. I suppose that you really couldn't care whether or not I run in and tell those two fighting-cocks that I'm dropping you at home?"

"Not in the slightest, Inspector."

"Can you walk all right?"

"Yes, yes," I replied, restraining an urge of impatience. "I've a slight concussion, Lestrade, no more."

He obligingly released my arm though remained hovering nervously around me until we reached the waiting cab.

"The shot grazed you then, Doctor? We were afraid the worst had happened, but when Mr. Holmes didn't come out after going in I assumed you had the matter under control."

I sank back into the seat gratefully, leaning my throbbing head back against the cushions. "I ducked and managed to slam the door, but not quite quickly enough. Ives was grazed as well, but the majority of the damage was done to the hall and not to us."

Lestrade nodded and droned on, detailing an account that matched Holmes's about the sniper's capture – I barely listened but let the man speak so that he would stop asking questions – and finished by telling me he was seeing that Bradwick was severely reprimanded for his lapse in common sense.

"We all make mistakes, Inspector," I sighed.

"Yes, but that one could have been very, very costly, Doctor. I thought Mr. Holmes was going to either faint or kill somebody when he realised the shot hadn't gone wild," Lestrade muttered.

I smiled despite the pain in my head.

"We took Brownley to the South Kensington Station, Doctor, and he'll be kept there for the time being. No point in dragging him to the Yard in the middle of the night. He'll be charged with Chamberlain's murder, among other things – that's assuming he is completely sane, which I doubt…" the official said thoughtfully.

"I believe he's sane enough, Lestrade - just warped by years of horror and what he sees as deep injustice," I replied, my mind conjuring up images that I really had grown thoroughly tired of reliving during this case. Then somewhere in my muddled brain a small detail clicked.

"Lestrade, you and Holmes both commented on his extraordinary agility and energy?"

"Yes, Doctor – took us all by surprise, for you wouldn't expect it by looking at him."

"I've seen his physical appearance, Lestrade, and I cannot fathom how he would be able to do what he did tonight on his own strength, between leaping from the roof and putting up such a struggle," I said pensively. "I should not be at all surprised if he is not addicted to something, started originally, no doubt, to combat the pain of his sustained injuries."

_Or to drown out the pain of memories and scars left by years of war and imprisonment_, I did not bother to add. "I have seen that many times before in veterans, Lestrade, and I've no doubt Dr. Ives will agree with me."

"Speaking of the devil – no offense to your friend, Doctor – I'll go back and tell them where I've dropped you so that they're not running about tearing a whole district apart looking for you," Lestrade said with a grin, stepping down from the cab in front of 221B and waiting to see if I needed aid in descending.

I did not, though the pavement rocked for a moment unsteadily when I hopped down, settling neatly back into place a moment later. Good, the dizzy spells were wearing off in both intensity and frequency. Now, if I could only make it up the stairs without awakening Mrs. Hudson…

_**Holmes**_

I stood for a moment, staring at the empty step and deserted street, processing the fact that my friend was wandering heaven only knew where around the city, concussed, suffering blood-loss, and still not steady on his feet.

"Where the devil is he?" I demanded, the question flung to the night air as much as anything else, for it was as likely to correctly answer me as Ives was. "You don't suppose he's walking back…"

"If he is, he's by far more foolish than I've given him credit for being," Ives retorted.

"He's dazed –"

"Precisely. Too dazed to walk and not enough to try to."

"Then where is he?"

"If I knew, why the devil would I be standing with you staring at a deserted street?" Ives snapped with the air of a schoolmaster addressing a less-than-bright pupil. The old doctor walked to the curb and looked down it in both directions.

"The police have all gone as well," he said as I joined him at the end of the walk, "so perhaps he went with them to take Brownley to the station."

"I would like to hope that Lestrade didn't stand round here for that long holding the man, but knowing the Yard's typical semi-efficiency I suppose it is possible," I replied, glancing down at the pavement. No tracks; it had been a dry day and night.

"I have to say I don't like the idea of his wandering around, even in a controlled environment like a police station, without some kind of observation," Ives said, the bantering tone he had been using with me under our temporary flag of truce turning to a genuine worry that I knew was already showing in my own voice.

I met the man's sharp eyes for a moment before turning as the steady clopping of a cab horse reached my ears. A moment later a hansom pulled up at the curb and Inspector Lestrade poked his head out of the vehicle.

"Missing something, gentlemen?"

I did not find the man's grinning at our worried expressions in the least bit humorous and told him so, much to Ives's amusement.

"No need to be snappish, Holmes. I took the doctor home a little while ago. Didn't look too good, by my way of thinking, but he insisted he wanted to go back to Baker Street instead of just going back in the house."

"Indeed? I cannot fathom why," Ives drawled flatly.

I repressed a wry grin – no need to let the man know I was amused – and turned back to Lestrade as he spoke again.

"I'm heading back to see about Brownley – shall I come by in the morning with all the particulars?"

"Yes, thank you, Lestrade."

"Evening, then, gentlemen." The Inspector shouted up to the cab driver and the vehicle plodded slowly away, leaving the two of us to return to the house.

"Now we're probably going to have to walk halfway to Baker Street before we see a cab," I muttered, flinging my arms into my coat.

The old doctor made no reply, and I turned to see him gingerly attempting to struggle back into his jacket, careful of that wounded arm. More out of common courtesy and respect rather than actual caring or worry, I hesitantly reached out for the coat.

"May I?"

His sharp eyes glared at me for a moment in a burst of fierce pride, but after seeing no pity in my countenance he gave a single curt nod and accepted my aid. I locked Verner's door, pocketed the key, and then we set off down the street toward a more heavily trafficked thoroughfare, where I hoped to find a cab to get us back to Baker Street as quickly as possible.

We walked for several minutes without conversation, lost in our own thoughts as suited both of our temperaments. Then I felt rather than saw the elderly doctor's eyes upon me for a moment preceding his beginning to speak, almost to himself rather than directly to me.

"He always was a preposterously stubborn man, with a temper and a heart to match," Ives remarked quietly.

I did not bother to voice the unnecessary query of whom he was speaking, nor did I want to interject and disrupt the flow of unusual voluntary information.

"I remember one night, not long after he arrived in Peshawar. First night there, I think." The old soldier smirked in remembrance. "He was supposed to be on complete bed-rest. I caught him that night moving about the ward, ministering to patients while he thought the coast was clear."

I nearly laughed aloud, for I could well believe it…but somehow I could not exactly derive humor from an experience that, for both Watson and the man walking slowly beside me, had to have been far more horrific than anything I had ever witnessed in my less noble career.

"You caught him at it?" I asked, hoping my eagerness to hear this particular anecdote did not show in my voice. "What excuse did he give you?"

Ives's smirk broadened, and he glanced sideways at me. "Said he 'happened to be passing by' the sick man. Never did lie very well…nor did he easily accept enforced inactivity."

_Still doesn't_, I thought but of course did not voice the statement.

"At any rate, he was undoubtedly one of the most dreadful patients I ever had the misfortune to treat. Even I was unable to keep him on bedrest for more than ten days, the stubborn idiot."

"He actually defeated _you_ in an argument, Doctor?" I questioned impertinently, raising an eyebrow.

Ives snorted. "Let us say that I preferred to keep my sanity than to keep him abed."

This time I did laugh, and was pleasantly surprised to feel a bit more of the wall of tension between myself and the man beside me crumble under the influence.

"Doctor…" I began, a trifle hesitantly.

"Yes?" he prompted

"Why exactly are you volunteering this information to me?"

"I was under the impression you wished to know details about his military experiences."

"I never said so –" I began, feeling color start to tinge my face in my embarrassment.

"But it is obvious all the same," the elderly doctor replied, his eyes offering me the closest thing to a twinkle I had seen so far from him tonight. "And I would think that by now, Mr. Holmes, you should have deduced I am making a rather obvious effort to, if not bury the hatchet, at least plant the blade into the ground."

I repressed both a smirk and a rather antagonistic comment to that with a supreme effort.

"Ah, there is a hansom. Let us return and see if our _shared orbit_ managed to ascend your seventeen stairs without mishap to himself or your landlady's furniture."

And with that, Ives turned from me and strode briskly off, bellowing in the direction of the cab drifting down the street. I stared after him for a moment in some puzzlement. Then a smile tugged at the corner of my mouth, and I hurried to catch up.

Perhaps, after all, reaching a cessation of hostilities did not necessarily mean unconditional surrender of one party.


	28. To Cure Hatred

_There is no medicine to cure hatred – African proverb _

_**Watson**_

Moving slowly up the stairs had dual advantages – it kept the world at a reasonable steadiness and it prevented the creaks and groans of the wood from alerting our much put-upon landlady to my presence. Holmes had told her we might be gone for a few days; I could only hope she would take that as a good enough reason not to listen for our arrival.

I paused a moment in the sitting room and determined continuing to my room was, for the moment, beyond my powers. Instead, I helped myself to a pitcher of water and my own supplies of linen cloths from my medical bag to wash off the worst of the blood. My jacket, I feared, was beyond repair though I would leave the final verdict to Mrs. Hudson. My collar, too, was saturated but I held out hope for the shirt itself. I did not feel up to changing clothes just yet. I did drape my jacket over the back of my chair with the stained side up so as not to risk getting blood on the upholstery.

The worst of the mess attended to, I mixed a portion of willow extract powder to take the edge off the pain and finally collapsed into my chair, making full use of the footstool. I did not intend to fall asleep; neither did I mean to wait up for Holmes and Ives. It was merely an opportunity for rest as well as reflection. And, I noted with some anticipation, with the case over it was high time I discuss a few matters with them both.

As it turned out, I did not have time to fall asleep – though my eyes refused to stay open – for it was not long until I heard two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs as quickly and as quietly as possible.

I waited until I heard the door open before I spoke, not bothering to open my eyes. "No, I am not asleep; yes, I am fine; yes, I did take a pain-killer; no, it was not morphine; yes, I do plan to sleep tonight; no, I do not plan on retiring from this room. Are there any questions I have failed to anticipate?"

"I can think of only one," Holmes replied. "Do you have any serious objections if we both stayed with you?"

At that I opened one eye. "No, not at all. Provided you will maintain civility. To be honest, I rather doubt the possibility."

"Ah, but much can happen in ten minutes," Ives retorted. "Peace treaties may be brokered; patients may disappear without a trace . . ."

Finally I raised my head and looked at them both. "Are you telling me that in the few minutes I was out of your company, you decided to put aside your differences? The same differences that were so great they nearly impeded progress on the case?"

"I believe you exaggerate the extent of our difficulties but yes, that is in essence what we are saying," replied Holmes with only a trace of asperity.

With mostly-clear vision I searched for any trace of duplicity or placation in their countenances. I saw none but that did not mean there was none to find. Knowing them as I did, I would certainly not put it past either of them to unite in lies if they believed it was for my "own good."

"How then was this peace brokered? And kindly sit, so I need not crick my neck."

The two men exchanged amused glances, no doubt at my expense, but Holmes did lay claim to his usual chair while Ives sat fully upright on the couch. "It was admissions and concessions from both parties," the latter explained briefly. "Really, I think our government might have learned a thing or two for their negotiations."

"Admissions and concessions," I repeated incredulously. "I should like to hear the details of that."

"It would serve no real purpose at this point," protested Holmes mildly. He automatically reached for his pipe and then hesitated with a querying look at me. I waved him to continue though I noted he reached for fresher tobacco rather than the nearly-spent plugs and dottles sprinkled about the mantle. Then, speaking around his newly lit pipe, he continued, "An agreement has been reached and is not likely to be violated."

"I see." In other words, I thought, whatever had transpired between them was not likely to be divulged to any living man, not even myself. Not with the two of them in the same room, at any rate. I should have to corner one of them alone, preferably when I was feeling more myself. "In that case, you are both welcome to stay and make sure I do not become comatose or stop breathing, however slim the chance of that is. However, I do ask that you spend the night doing something other than staring at me the entire time."

"I think that may be possible," Holmes conceded with amusement while I settled further in my chair.

* * *

I awoke to an incessant throbbing in my head and Mrs. Hudson's cry of dismay, the latter being promptly cut short by Holmes. His voice was little more than a fierce whisper; hers was more clear though what I could make out was little more than one-word protests. Finally Ives chimed in with, "The most irreparable damage was done to the fabric, not to him." Then the door closed and light footsteps stomped down the stairs.

I shifted stiffly, having grown cramped from my night in the chair, during which I could not change position for fear of jarring my head. "I take it Mrs. Hudson has found my jacket."

"She has indeed," Holmes agreed, "and she has made it her mission to attend to it as best she can. Be grateful for small blessings, as she nearly made it her mission to attend to you before we managed to dissuade her. How is your head?"

"Still attached, more's the pity." I looked over at Ives, who looked a little more worse for wear than he usually did after a nightly vigil. "How is your shoulder?"

"I am trying to be grateful that nature hasn't graced me with a few more inches of height. Otherwise the bullet would have grazed a more vital area. In short, we are quite the matched set today." He gave me a grimly set smile and shook his head. "Do you know, I managed to get through three wars and how many skirmishes without taking a bullet? Retirement may be more hazardous for me than the army."

I laughed, and retired to my room to change clothing as well as the bandaging. The wound, I was glad to see, was indeed relatively shallow though it did extend for several inches. No wonder it had bled so heavily. I was also glad to see there was minimal swelling and no sign of impending infection. Even so, it made combing my hair more of chore than it ought ever to be.

Refreshed and aided by another dose of willow powder, I returned to the main room to find that tea had already been laid out. That in and of itself was not surprising. What did take me aback was seeing Holmes and Ives calmly and civilly partaking of it. As I entered and they both turned to me, I realized more clearly that concern for me may well have been the uniting factor. I also realized how quickly said concern would become tiresome.

Solicitation is all well and good in its place. When it is unnecessary and incessant, it becomes far more of an irritant than it is a help. After only a few hours of both Holmes and Ives watching me like hawks I was well on my last thread of patience when Inspector Lestrade arrived.

He, too, felt the need to ask after my health, although he did vary the standard line by asking after Ives as well. I fear my response was unnecessarily gruff.

"Inspector, you wouldn't by any chance need me to come down to the Yard to sign any documents or write up a statement?" I noted, with some pride, that I kept most of my desperation out of my voice.

Lestrade began to answer before he was caught in the identical, icy looks of my companions. He wavered for a second and then laughed faintly. "All right, gentlemen, leave me out of this! We will need statements from all three of you but we won't need them for another day yet. Sorry, Doctor," he added to me. I shrugged philosophically; it had been worth a chance.

"I should add that our Mr. Brownley has been transferred to Scotland Yard this morning. It looks like he's taken ill or some such thing," mused Lestrade aloud. "You would have to pay him a visit in a nonofficial capacity, of course."

"What do you mean he's ill?" demanded Ives sharply.

"The guard said it looked as though he were coming down with a cold – watery eyes, running nose, perspiring heavily. I shouldn't think it serious although the timing is curious."

The list of symptoms did match the beginnings of a cold but they sounded familiar to me for another reason. "Those are also the beginning symptoms of morphine withdrawal," I commented quietly. "It would confirm my theory as to why and how he was able to be so athletic last night."

"Morphine causes drowsiness and sluggishness," Ives argued. "It would ease the pain of any old injuries but to be as alert as he was, he would have to have taken a stimulant in addition to the morphine."

"Like cocaine?" Holmes asked seriously.

We looked at each other quietly, realizing the enormity of the implications. Then Holmes rose and reached for his hat.

"I think, Doctors, we shall be paying a call to Scotland Yard a trifle earlier than planned."


	29. Rule Number Two

_There are certain rules about a war and rule number one is young men die. And rule number two is doctors can't change rule number one. -- MASH, the series _

_**Holmes **_

None of us spoke much until we were in a four-wheeler headed across London for Scotland Yard, and it was Lestrade who then broke the silence with a bemused frown.

"Am I particularly dense, gentlemen, or is it because I lack medical expertise that I don't quite follow you about the implications of this fellow's drug withdrawal?" asked he, glancing back and forth rapidly between the two doctors.

Beside me, Watson leaned his head gingerly back against the cushions and, after a nod from Ives, answered the official.

"Morphine withdrawal alone can be a quite serious condition," he replied. "The first twenty-four hours' symptoms include those you've already mentioned, but after that the possibilities can range anywhere from severe headache and abdominal pain, chills, and muscle spasms to severe cramping, nausea, drug cravings, and anything in between. And, in the worst cases, another symptom is such elevated blood pressure and heart rate that there is a strong possibility of heart failure or stroke."

Lestrade's eyes widened. "When would those symptoms start to occur?"

"The serious ones usually peak between forty-eight and ninety-six hours after the last dosage," Watson replied.

"But that is not the most potentially dangerous factor in this instance," Ives added after a pause.

"No?"

"You forget the cocaine use, Inspector. The cocaine withdrawal symptoms will begin just as the morphine withdrawal reaches its peak," the old doctor replied. "Morphine withdrawal can be potentially deadly alone, but when combined with cocaine withdrawal, the effects could quite easily grow to be more than a match for Brownley's system."

"Good Lord…what does cocaine withdrawal entail, then?"

"More of the same: chills and muscle aches and tremors, but also irritability, restlessness, emotional disturbances…" I answered without thinking.

Lestrade looked at me in some surprise, and I felt my ears begin to burn; not for the world did I ever want him – or Ives, for that matter, though doubtless the man already knew from Watson's memoirs – realising just how well acquainted I was with at least the cocaine withdrawal symptoms, mild though they had always been in my case.

All animosity I might still have held for the elderly doctor turned into a brilliant flash of gratitude and relief as he shot me a knowing look and then smoothly turned the conversation back to its previous channel.

"And those minor symptoms can last up to one week, after which anything from angry mood swings and severe drug cravings to depression and insomnia is possible," Ives informed Lestrade.

"So you're saying we will have an unstable inmate at best, and a dangerously ill one at the worst, for over a week?" the official gasped in dismay.

"_Ill_ is not the worst that could happen," Watson interjected. "In his condition, with that amount of pain and trauma to his abused body, his system could very well just decide it has had enough and give up. Or he could be in danger of dying from dehydration."

"Or," Ives added quietly, "he will decide that living with that amount of pain, either physical and or mental, is simply unbearable. I hope you have him under heavy guard with the proper precautions, Inspector?"

Lestrade, who had paled slightly at the notion of the man becoming suicidal, nodded. "The usual, Doctor, although perhaps I should double the security in that case."

"It would not be ill-advised," I interjected through a tightly clenched jaw. "I want him to live to hang for what he did, Lestrade."

Ives raised one bushy eyebrow at my vehemence, and Watson shot me a sidelong glance of some concern. I ignored both of them, concentrating on the official sitting across from me.

"Yes, well…what do we need to do with the man, when these symptoms start?" the inspector asked. "I cannot assign a police doctor to be with him constantly. Are you saying we need to give him whatever he's addicted to if it will keep him alive?"

"We will be better equipped to answer that when once we have seen the man's condition, Inspector. Which I see shall be within minutes," Watson added as the vehicle pulled to a halt outside the premises of the Yard.

I noticed that both my friend and Ives were moving just a trifle slower than normal and slowed my own rapid pace accordingly behind them and Lestrade as we entered. The inspector located the file of information he had gathered during the morning hours and read odds and ends from it aloud as we made our way back to the holding cells.

"Fellow apparently had a pretty rum go of it," the official said, flipping through the sheaf of papers. "He wouldn't tell us much this morning and absolutely nothing last night, but according to what our research has turned up, Alexander Brownley was part of the 51st Foot…err, the King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, I believe they are now. Let's see…1877-78, Jowakhi Expedition; November 21, 1878, Battle of Ali Masjid…"

"Yes, we were aware of that," I interrupted impatiently. "We traced his file through General Malkin's memoirs earlier in the week. That is how we learned his true name in the first place."

"Well, I have not heard his history," put in Ives. The look he sent me was reproachful, tempered with faint annoyance. "Was that battle where he was wounded in the spine?"

Beside me, Watson shuddered slightly with a twinge of some memory.

"I believe so," Lestrade flipped the paper over and scanned the next. "Yes, took a bullet to the . . . sixth cervical vertebrae?"

"Lower neck, upper back," Ives translated.

I winced instinctively.

"It could not have paralysed him permanently, at least, since he obviously is still mobile," Watson remarked. "Bruised spinal cord, I believe was Malkin's retroactive diagnosis."

"Spot on, Doctor," Lestrade reported, glancing up from his papers just barely in time to keep from running into a wall as we turned a corner. "He was temporarily paralysed by the force of the impact."

"But surely he would not have been left by the medical personnel on the battlefield, even in that condition?" I asked in revulsion.

"Of course not!" Watson retorted with some heat. "Besides, Brownley never made such an accusation in Malkin's report!"

"Brownley reported it later, after his reinstatement to the 51st," Lestrade hastily interjected. "Apparently the medic who found him did not check him thoroughly and left him for dead."

"Disgraceful," Watson muttered. "It is no wonder he hates all army doctors."

"Hardly," I replied. "The retaliation for one man's actions, however careless, should not be carried out upon innocent parties."

"That happens more often than you would think in wartime, Holmes," Watson said to me in a low tone. His eyes were pained and troubled as they looked into mine; was he actually feeling sympathy for this murderer?

"All that the files we checked said was that he recovered the ability to move on the field some hours later," Lestrade went on, blissfully unaware of the slight rise in tension behind him. "But by then he was unaware of his regiment's location and instead stumbled upon the enemy in the dark. Was captured, and for the next ten years was a prisoner of war in southeast Afghanistan and northwestern India."

"Ten years," Watson muttered with a gesture of revulsion. "Ten years in who knows what kind of hell all for the want of the ten seconds it would have taken to make sure he was dead or alive."

"This gives us no details of that time," Lestrade said, pausing for a moment to pick up a paper he had dropped. "It just says that he was found in the First Hazara Expedition by his old regiment, the 51st. But given the scarring on his wrists and face alone, I think we may safely guess at what happened."

This was old news for Watson and myself, having already read that particular report. However, Ives was clearly taken aback by the coincidence.

"And it was then that General Malkin treated him after the rescue," he pondered aloud. "He must not have recognised Brownley."

"Says that our man served with that unit until 1893, when he was dishonorably discharged," the inspector reported, closing the file and tucking it under his arm. "Any further details will have to be gathered from the man himself…if he's in any condition to talk to us."

"Dishonorable discharge," Watson mused. "On what grounds, I wonder?"

Personally I would not have been at all surprised if it had been for taking a potshot at one of his superiors, but naturally I did not voice such an opinion as I had refrained from doing so much thus far in the conversation.

While I did not pretend to anything akin to sympathy for the man that had taken one innocent life and nearly taken at least three others, one of whom was dearer to me than I should ever admit even to myself, I recognised that I also had no real inkling of what could be driving such a man to what he did. I therefore allowed the two soldiers of our party to take the initiative in the converse for once instead of instigating it myself when we arrived at Brownley's cell a minute or so later.

The man in question was indeed apparently in some discomfort, and the aggressive fury of the night before was most conspicuously absent, being replaced by what at first glance would appear to be symptoms of a common cold; sniffling, watery eyes, and general unwellness. This was accompanied by a depressed lethargy of movement – he barely moved when we entered – and occasional grimaces of hidden pain that seemed to grow worse as the interview went on.

When he saw that we were not the police, he grew more animated, actually rising from his pallet and taking a few stumbling steps towards the bars. His swollen, red eyes scanned each of us from tip to toe, gazing longer at Watson's head and Ives's shoulder. I felt my hands clench in rage when he smirked at them.

"So you're the bait I sprang for as neatly as a fish," he addressed Watson. "A soldier knows his own kind; you couldn't have fooled me otherwise, but who the devil are you?"

"Dr. John Watson, Assistant Surgeon, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," my friend replied.

Brownley gave a low growl of contempt. I bristled, but Watson did not appear to even blink. "Pity I didn't have more time to line up my last shot," the prisoner snarled, "but it's nice to see I haven't entirely lost my touch." My friend tensed but otherwise outwardly remained the unshakable soldier.

Brownley glanced over at Ives, who was more than maintaining his barrack-room posture during this unpleasant interview. "And you?"

"Dr. Ernest Ives. Surgeon-Colonel at Peshawar," the man drawled flatly. "I am also a friend of General Malkin."

A flash of fiery anger flared up in Brownley's eyes and he lunged forward, gripping the bars when he legs failed to hold him upright. "A friend of Malkin's, eh?" he spat with deep contempt. "You can tell him from me that his turn would have come within the week."

"All because he failed to recognize you back in '88?" Watson asked in disbelief. 'Is that why you were sending him those threats for months?"

"No, _Doctor_," the man snarled, emphasizing the title with deep hatred. "Retiring with _honors_, when he deserved none, warranted those!"

"If you hated Malkin so much, why then did you choose David Chamberlain for your first target?" Ives asked.

The blood-shot eyes blazed at the elderly doctor. "Because he ruined what pitiful bit of a new life the military, in its almighty wisdom, granted me," Brownley growled.

"He was the one who prescribed you morphine and thus started your addiction," I said quietly, realization dawning. "Had you not been treated with the drug before?"

"Oh, I had been given morphine before," said the prisoner, loathing dripping from his voice. "But _that man_ told me it disgusted him to see a soldier complaining of pain, and that if I _must _have something for it then he would see to it that it would leave me no pain left to complain of."

Peripherally I saw Watson flinch and even Ives stepped back. "The dosage was too high. You became addicted to it," I finished.

He gave a very rigid nod and retreated back to his pallet, lying upon it as stiffly as an Egyptian mummy. He closed his eyes, meaning to ignore us, his continued discomfort from the withdrawal evident.

"And the cocaine enhanced the pain-killing properties of morphine without the usual drowsiness and lethargy you would otherwise experience," I goaded; it took no great deduction to see what had happened.

"Had to be able to work somehow," Brownley grated.

"If you held the army and its people in such low esteem, why in the world did you take a job in an office handling their pensions?" I asked.

He snorted. "You, sir, were never a soldier."

"No."

"Then let me say this," the man said bitterly with a twisted scowl. "You may take the Queen's shilling but they take a bit of you in return. It gets in your blood, like malaria. 'Once a soldier, always a soldier.' "

"And you were unable to obtain a more respectable job than custodian, due to your . . . discharge," Watson said quietly. "You could not reveal your educational background without revealing your true history."

"Oh, well done," the man snapped, his eyes glinting with a combined pain and bitterness. He draped an arm over his eyes with a choked-off groan – no doubt the withdrawal headache was intense.

"It must have been maddening to have such an occupation, added to your injuries and addictions," Watson ventured questioningly.

"Watching checks being written every day to those fools who had no right to be supported by the army…" continued Ives deliberately provokingly. "Then when you read of Surgeon-General Malkin retiring with honour, that landed as the last straw on the proverbial camel's back,"

Brownley sighed heavily, though the tail end of it was disturbingly close to the sound of a dog's warning growl.

"Of course you then utilized the pension office to gain the information you sought about the men you chose to receive your twisted interpretation of justice," I snapped, my patience with the man's matter-of-fact attitude about cold-blooded murder fairly nauseating me – a difficult feat to accomplish with my iron constitution.

"Why did you go back to visit Chamberlain one last time before starting to send threats and finally murdering the man?" Lestrade interjected for the first time in the conversation, smoothly cutting off any further angry outbursts from either of us.

Slowly the arm came down and he turned his face towards us one more time. "One last chance," he enunciated slowly. "One last chance to acknowledge what he did to me. To _apologize_, as not one of you damned doctors has done to me yet. And he didn't even recognize me," the man spat with a flare of fury.

"He probably didn't even remember you, if it had been years since your first consultation," Watson snapped, paler than was his wont.

"All the more reason to rid the world of a callous scoundrel," Brownley replied, glaring fiercely at my friend.

One thing had struck me as odd, which I now phrased voiced. "I am puzzled, Brownley, as to why you have directed your murderous attentions to these innocent doctors when logically you would have gone after the medic who actually left you on the field those years ago."

Those baleful eyes turned my direction briefly. "And so I would have, had the filthy scum still been alive – the Second Afghan War stole that privilege from me, as it stole almost everything else from me."

Brownley's mouth snapped shut abruptly after this pronouncement, and his face contorted with an expression of intense pain, his hands clenching convulsively on the side of the bunk where he lay.

"Any further questions, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asked, pulling out his pocket-watch and glancing at the timepiece.

"No, Lestrade. Doctors?"

Ives replied in the negative, and Watson shook his head, his face drawn and wearing that half-pensive, half-haunted look I had seen periodically throughout this case.

I dearly hoped that with the closing of the sordid drama would come the burial of whatever ghosts had been resurrected by the affair, though heaven only knew how long that might take.

Even more concerning than this was the fact that I was not entirely sure I knew what to do to hasten that eventuality, save seeing Brownley stand trial.

If he indeed were to live that long.


	30. The Covenant and Oath

_I swear . . . __to give a share of precepts and oral instruction and all the other learning . . . to pupils who have signed the covenant and have taken an oath according to the medical law. – The Hippocratic Oath_

_**Watson**_

As we turned from Brownley's cell Lestrade followed us a ways. "A moment," he said in a low voice before we left entirely. "What do you advise be done about our prisoner concerning his withdrawal?"

"Personally," Ives began, "I would see if he is willing to be weaned off the drugs gradually rather than cease their consumption outright. He shall probably refuse but the offer should be made nonetheless. And, of course, the most stringent of suicide watches ought to be put into place."

The little inspector nodded seriously and reminded us that our statements would be expected within a few days.

"He will not take the offer," Ives murmured as we left Scotland Yard.

"No," Holmes agreed. "He would rather die than accept what he deems charity or pity."

"Provided he survives, do you suppose he will be found fit to stand trial as a sane man?" continued the elderly doctor.

Holmes gave a Gallic shrug. "I do not begin to presume to understand the loopholes in our legal system that are such a delight to the lawyers. It is my hope that he will; perhaps our statements might aid that endeavour."

"To fit the legal definition of insanity a man must be unable to differentiate between right and wrong," I said quietly. "He must not be able to grasp the gravity of his actions."

"And a lack of conscience does not insanity make," paraphrased Holmes much more cheerfully. "I think there can be little doubt as to his ability to differentiate, only his ability to care that there is a difference."

I remained silent. While I did agree with Holmes's assessment of Brownley's sanity, I was far less happy about the probable outcome of the trial, if it indeed reached that point. Frankly, I had some doubts about Brownley's constitution, already so sorely tried by his years of hardship. It depended on how badly he wished to live; the will to do so is a tremendous force but since he surely knew there was naught but a noose waiting for him, I wondered how much Brownley wished to survive the withdrawal. I could not blame him, if he planned to will himself to the grave.

Be it by hanging or by narcotic-induced illness, it seemed a cruel end to a life that had seen little but cruelty to begin with. Every man must make his choices, but so too must a man live within the boundaries life gives him. He may overcome difficulties; he may achieve the seemingly impossible, but never can he entirely escape his limits. In Brownley's case, he did not have to let the bitterness and pain of captivity and injustice poison his life, but neither could he forget or undue those ten years spent as a prisoner and slave.

I trust I may be forgiven for any lapse in modesty when I say that I know, perhaps better than Holmes, how misfortune may transform into a truly fortuitous event. Certainly I would not have wished to be wounded or to have taken ill in Afghanistan; no one would. Nevertheless, I knew it was those events which set me on my path to meet Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and all that ensued. And while I may not think so when old wounds nag at me or Holmes is at his most irritating, I should never wish to alter that part of my past.

Others, I know, are not so fortunate.

I knew also that as someone who had survived one of Brownley's attacks, my testimony at his trial (if indeed it took place) would be of some importance. I found this knowledge depressing. I could not condone his actions in the slightest; that did not mean I desired to be a part of bringing about his inevitable death.

Part of this, I confess, was a sense of vicarious guilt. That he had labeled not only me but also Ives with the same sweeping prejudice against army doctors did not help my unease. The man had suffered much because of men of my profession; first negligence, and then belittlement.

I regret to say it, but we doctors did have much to answer for where Brownley was concerned.

* * *

I did not feel it was necessary to finish the twenty-four hour concussion-vigil; both my companions felt otherwise. I was fortunate that this time they found conversation more engaging than staring at me like an exhibit in a zoo. So long as I showed myself to be conscious and coherent (and remained in their midst) Holmes and Ives were content to let me be.

It was a mixed blessing. I was glad to allow them their talk for did not feel up to joining them. My head still throbbed dully and my spirits were depressed when I thought of Brownley, his tragic past, and his doomed future. Unfortunately, Brownley was the most popular topic of conversation. That was not surprising. The case was at the forefront of everyone's mind, and Holmes much prefers to discuss cases immediately after their conclusions; he avoids making reference to them while on other investigations unless it is unavoidable or entirely necessary. Nevertheless I found myself growing more restless as time progressed.

Shortly before tea Ives announced his departure, having satisfied himself that I was well beyond any danger of slipping into a coma. He had one more surprise for the detective before he left – a sealed envelope that jingled faintly as it exchanged hands.

"Your biographer has been somewhat vague as to your fees," Ives explained. "That is why I have kept track of your estimated expenses as best I could during the case. If I have erred on the side of stinginess please do not hesitate to inform me."

Holmes shook his head and tried to return the envelope. "I cannot accept this."

Ives pushed it back. "I am your client."

Again the envelope returned. "And a friend."

"It was well-earned," Ives insisted, not turning a hair at Holmes's pronouncement.

"I would have continued investigating the case had you never employed me, and that would have garnered me no income."

"As a reward then."

"The work is its own reward." Here Holmes sent me a disapproving look; no doubt he had seen me rolling my eyes at a phrase I had heard so often since his return.

"Then take it as a token of goodwill," ordered Ives, any touch of jocularity gone. When Holmes still demurred, he added, "You cannot tell me the greatest consulting detective is incapable of discovering a way to dispose of money. You may donate it to a charitable cause or spent it on disguises; it is one and the same to me. But I am not leaving this flat with that envelope."

"You might as well take it, Holmes," I opined from my chair. "I know that tone of voice all too well. Slipping it into his pocket when he is unawares won't do any good either, once he realizes what you've done." I did not put it past Holmes to attempt such a feat, but neither did I wish to have Ives storming back to Baker Street to "return" the money, as I knew he would should Holmes prove successful in that endeavour.

With a sigh, my friend stretched out his hand and finally took that innocuous little object. "Very well. I accept this . . . because a friend has asked me to."

Ives inclined his head. "I am delighted to hear it," he said ironically. Stiffly he donned his coat and hat, and I rose to escort him out.

I had half expected Ives to wave me off. Instead, I accompanied him to the front door, at which point he suddenly seized my arm and dragged me into Mrs. Hudson's parlour. The good lady, I was relieved to see, was occupied elsewhere. "Now, Doctor," he began sternly, "you have not been yourself all day. Either that wound caused more trauma than you are letting on, which would account for your listless behavior, or something is bothering you. Neither is conducive to healing; now which is it?"

"There is no undisclosed trauma," I answered flatly. "It is nothing."

"Not being of a physical nature does not make a problem trivial," retorted he. "You know I am going to have it out of you before I go; you might as well explain before Holmes takes it into his head to go looking for you. Is it the case?"

"No." I debated with myself for perhaps a second or two before I decided to explain further. "We of the medical profession failed that man, from the battlefield to London, not only once but repeatedly. We swore an oath, every one of us, to give aid and to do no harm."

"We swore by a plethora of defunct Grecian deities," Ives reminded me, "and you know full well there are corrupted men in every profession, ours included."

"Yes, of course," I snapped. "That is not the point."

"You feel sorry for him."

"To an extent."

"Then what are you planning to do about it?"

"I haven't decided."

Ives inhaled gustily. "Granted I am no longer your attending physician, but I pray you'll listen to this advice. If you truly feel there is an injustice that needs righting, go and do it. Do not waste your pity on a man who has already made his choices. Mind you change that bandage within the hour."

I blinked at the non sequiteur but transitioned easily enough. "Mind your shoulder," I replied.

* * *

_and now . . . the epilogue._


	31. Epilogue

_**Watson**_

The weather had turned chill, even for autumn. The sky was a leaden grey, overcast and dismal, merely echoing back the cold, grey stone of the prison walls that surrounded the little courtyard. My spirits matched the environment and even Holmes looked grim; our presence there was not because of a mission of good cheer. Today, Alexander Brownley would hang.

True to Ives's prediction, he had refused to accept any more of the narcotics that had ensnared him for the past few years. The withdrawal process had been exceptionally painful and debilitating, and while lucid and conscious he had refused any treatment to ease his suffering. Nevertheless, Brownley survived to face trial.

Holmes's testimony had proved all others almost redundant, and the case-file he had created with both the replications as well as genuine notes sent by Brownley featured heavily as evidence. Nevertheless, Lestrade as well as Constable Cummings and the now-disgraced Constable Bradwick took the stand. I was called to testify, but then so was Ives, Dr. Philip Robinson, Generals Malkin and Preston, Dr. Thomas Knopp, and half a dozen other London doctors. The sheer number of us who had been targeted by Brownley was staggering, but also saddening. The man's hatred was prolific.

Brownley had shown little reaction to his sentence of death. Only a faint, contemptuous sneer followed by a brief, bitter chuckle betrayed his emotions. His family might have made an appeal on his behalf but their absence during the affair was in its own way noteworthy. They had mourned him for dead almost twenty years ago, and then again only three years ago. Apparently they felt a third death, and his actions leading up to it, were beyond their powers to cope. I do not think an appeal would have been successful anyway.

And so it was that Holmes and I stood on the prison grounds with but a few others, awaiting Brownley's sentence to be carried out. Eventually I saw Ives's white head weaving through the sparse crowd toward us. We exchanged brief cordialities but soon fell silent.

"So, Mr. Holmes," Ives said abruptly, "I do not suppose you would be interested in investigating another little matter for me?"

"That would depend on the nature of the case," the detective replied with some amusement.

"It is a trivial thing, to be sure, but I am rather interested by it. An anonymous benefactor has donated some money to my West End Clinic. The curious part of that is the amount of the donation was delivered in an unmarked envelope, paid in cash, and matches down to the penny what I paid you for investigating the Brownley case. Whatever do you make of that, Mr. Holmes?"

I fought to hide a smile as my friend shrugged carelessly. "It is a curious matter indeed but I fear I must declining taking this case as my sympathies are with the culprit, Doctor. If your mysterious benefactor wished to make his identity known to you he would have done so. It is not for me to unmask him."

"Yes, I thought you might say that."

We again fell silent although I swear I heard Ives whisper to Holmes, "It was really not necessary to double the donation the following week although I am grateful for it."

Whatever joy and amusement I might have derived from the exchange was quickly blotted out by the arrival of the prisoner. Again I was made keenly aware of the gallows before us, the rope barely swinging in the light wind.

Brownley held a severely straight posture with his hands tied behind his back; I wondered how much of it was from nerve and how much from physical necessity. He had not looked well during the trial and looked downright ill now. Nevertheless his steps were measured if heavy as he mounted the gallows and took his position over the trap door.

He declined any final words then. We found out later he had spoken his last in his cell: "I expected nothing more." He blinked once as the rope lowered over his head. Then the noose was tightened and I wondered how his old neck injury would react to the actual hanging. Done properly, the spine snaps and death is quick, if not instantaneous. If done improperly, the man must asphyxiate to death.

Official words were spoken but I paid them no mind. Brownley looked as one dead already, his eyes not wandering the crowds but fixed firmly on a point I could not make out. The door dropped out beneath his feet.

There was a tremendous cracking sound as the weight of his body competed against the strength of the rope. I watched only long enough to acknowledge the lack of struggling before I could look no more. The hangman had done his job well.

They let him hang there a few minutes more to be certain that he was indeed dead, though there could be little doubt of that. Then the body was taken down and deposited on a small cart, and draped with a sheet. The crowd, such as it was, began to disperse.

None of us were inclined to converse as we left the prison. Holmes, I knew, was pleased by the outcome although he was less exuberant than I should have expected. I like to think it was out of deference to my frame of mind, for he took once glance at my face, lightly clapped me on the shoulder, and strode ahead at a pace I could easily match were I so inclined.

Instead, I walked more slowly, keeping Ives company. "Did Holmes really donate your fee and twice that again to the clinic?"

"I can think of no other man who would," was the reply. "It is too preposterous a coincidence to entertain. Now look here, Doctor, have you come to a solution for your moral quandary from weeks ago?"

"I have some thoughts in mind. Why?"

"An acquaintance of mine approached me and said he was trying to get up a panel for the discussion of medical ethics and responsibilities at St. Bart's. Give our last conversation, I thought you might be interested in participating."

"Yes," I said slowly, mulling over the idea. "I believe I am interested."

"What of your other solutions?"

"I prefer this one," I answered honestly. "It addresses in the most direct manner that which troubled me the most about Brownley's past."

"In that case I shall send your name along to him. He should be contacting you soon. His name is Starr, by the way. You may wish to warn Holmes that his is an expected correspondence lest he take it into his head that Brownley has a doppelganger."

I snorted softly – Ives was a fine one to talk of such things! – but replied that I would be on the watch for Starr's post. With that, Ives and I parted ways and it took but a moment to catch up to Holmes.

Back at Baker Street my friend folded himself into his chair and took up his briarwood pipe immediately. I let him be, preferring instead to lose myself in a novel. Thus we past a good half hour engaged in our own pursuits.

"It never ceases to astound me that human nature is capable of the vilest sordidness and spite, and yet has not lost the ability to display the most undeserved show of goodness and mercy," Holmes said at last around the stem of his pipe.

I looked up from the pages of my book. "Whatever has brought that to your mind?" I have known my friend to wax philosophical at the end of a case and occasionally during it. Normally such delvings arise from conversation but here I found myself at a loss to follow his train of thought.

"You, my dear Watson," he answered to my utter surprise. "That you are able to pity a man who would have cheerfully killed not only you but your colleagues."

"You yourself have shown pity to criminals before, Holmes," I responded, recovering from my shock but close to blushing with embarrassment. "It is a characteristic of yours to temper justice with mercy if you believe circumstances warrant it."

"Just so, Watson," he acknowledged. " 'If circumstances warrant it.' Perhaps that is where our paths diverge, for I see little in Brownley that warrant pity." The last was nearly snarled out between his teeth, and I did not need to be a detective to understand why.

"Perhaps that is because it is easier to forgive the danger to one's self than it is to forgive the danger to a friend," I observed. "Particularly a 'dear' one."

For my pains, I was favored with a sharp, withering look. "You are implying, Watson, that I am allowing my emotions to overrule my judgment. Not only is that insulting to my powers of detachment, that is hardly complimentary to you. It suggests that you are a weakness for me, an Achilles' heel."

"Is it so erroneous a conclusion?"

"It is indeed!"

I sighed, for I realized what an uphill battle was before me. "Holmes, what is the real reason you put up the money for your cousin to buy my practice?"

"Because he could not afford to otherwise, Watson, as I said before," he snapped impatiently and without hesitation.

I shook my head. "You had me give my word of honor that I would not publish any more of your cases. Then you asked me to give up my practice and move back to Baker Street, even going so far as to find a buyer. Why, Holmes? To what purpose? From a logical point of view, it would seem that you endeavored to curtail any hope of livelihood I might have."

Such a thought clearly had never occurred to him, for he looked taken aback. "That was not my intention," he murmured.

"I know it was not," I reassured him. "What I wish to know is what you did intend."

Sherlock Holmes fumbling for words is a sight to behold, for although I trust no man could hide it better, his unease was clear to me. "Well, it would certainly be inconvenient for this agency to be operated out of two locations," at last he offered dryly.

"You seem quite confident that I had wished to continue to be a partner in this agency," countered I quietly, without remonstration.

Obviously this was another thought that had never occurred to Holmes. "I trust you did, else you would not have agreed to return to Baker Street."

I sighed again, this time out of frustration. "For heaven's sake, Holmes! Is it really so difficult for you to admit to any of the softer emotions? I know you have said they complicate matters and hamper pure reason but in this instance your refusal to face them is only tangling the situation!"

"My dear Watson, I fear the only thing tangling the situation is your groundless insistence that I am concealing from you some ulterior motive for my actions."

I refused to be so brusquely waylaid from my topic, particularly when I knew myself to be right. "Holmes, why was it so important for both of us to resume business within 'this agency'?"

He was quiet for a moment. "You know why."

"Yes. Do you?"

With a theatrical sigh, Holmes lay aside his pipe. "Oh, very well. I have found it particularly irksome to continue on with this business without a trusted partner. Irksome, and a trifle more dangerous."

"And why is that?" I persisted, quite enjoying myself shamelessly at Holmes's expense.

"The company of a good friend can make tolerable even the most intolerable situations," he answered quietly. For Sherlock Holmes, such an admission was as close to heart-felt as the man ever came and I accepted it as such. Having pried the truth from his reluctant lips, I returned to my novel.

"You knew this already, didn't you? In Verner's consulting room," he demanded a minute later.

"Of course I did," I retorted, not looking up. "I simply didn't know if you understood your own motives."

"If I am truly so transparent then I shall have to give up such activities in the future," replied he good-naturedly.

"While you're at it, you may want to abandon some other activities as well, such as untoward jealousies concerning my acquaintances and not trusting my own sense and judgment where danger is concerned," I advised, also good-naturedly but wholly in earnest.

He raised an eyebrow at me but paused as he took in my expression. "Oh my dear fellow," he said grandly, "you are quite right. Henceforth I commend all of the previously mentioned pursuits to the rubbish-bin."

I raised my own eyebrows. "Good. I am immensely glad to hear it." I forced myself to wait another minute or so before adding innocently, my gaze still on the printed words before me, "Will your shag tobacco be joining those activities in the rubbish-bin soon?"

I was rewarded with a snort, and the sounds of a Stradivarius being taken up, followed by the strains of one of Holmes's milder compositions – one that I recognized as indicating all was well with his world.


End file.
